


the storm brings you back to me

by Fanonymous



Series: longship [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blood Eagle, Casual Intimacy, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Domesticity, Gore, Love Languages, Multi, Original Children Characters - Freeform, hints of Ubbe/Torvi, the clownery continues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 65,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27385537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanonymous/pseuds/Fanonymous
Summary: Ragnar's death unleashes a plague unto the kingdoms of England. It is time for his sons to come together to assemble the Great Heathen Army, the largest England has ever seen. Time for Ivar to come back to Kattegat, but not as a prince nor a prisoner, as a king.Sequel to i will lose you to the storm
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Astrid/Lagertha (Vikings), Bjorn/Torvi (Vikings), Ivar (Vikings)/Sansa Stark
Series: longship [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982434
Comments: 69
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again with the clownery. Credits to my friend Tessa for beta reading and convincing me to do this.

_ WINTERFELL _

Ivar is relieved. Part of him has been dreading news of his father’s death since he’d left Westeros on his own. Knowing it was going to happen is still different from the pain of knowing his fears have come to pass.

He would not know what to do if it weren’t for Sansa. Part of him was ready to come undone at the news, but Sansa’s steady support has kept him standing long enough for the righteous anger to bolster him.

It has been two months since he has received the news.

One month ago, Arya returned home bringing with her riches from foreign lands. Wynafryd has been hard-pressed to not let Wylla out of her sight after hearing about the trouble she’s been part of since Wynafryd’s departure. Wylla is happy to see her sister, but unhappy about the micromanaging.

Sansa has kept her vassal lords in Winterfell for the meantime as she prepares to leave her kingdom in the hands of Jon Snow.

Jon looked ready to bolt when she made that announcement. She stood in front of a gathering of her vassals and simply proclaimed it without consulting him first.

“My dear lords and ladies, I have some news.” She pauses for dramatic effect and turns around to survey the room.

“I am going to go across the sea to Kattegat with my husband King Ivar. You may expect me to be back within a year. Until then, I leave the North in the hands of Jon Snow, who will rule in my stead.”

After a short silence, the room bursts with a cacophony of voices.

“The Queen in the North must stay in the North!”

“Him?! You’re leaving us with him?!”

“Why?!”

_Maybe she should just stay._

Ivar thinks as he sits sullenly beside her throne at the head of the table, trying to keep his expression unreadable, but the violent shouts directed at Sansa make his hands shake with want to hurt something.

When Sansa raises her hand, the entire hall fades into silence. “I have given more than anyone here can imagine to the North.”

She looks back to the head of the table where Ivar and Jon are seated. “I leave the North in Jon’s hands. Jon, the man you all crowned king not too long ago as I sat right beside him in this very hall. I offer him the chance to prove himself to you once again.”

Jon looks surprised and altogether unready to protest. Ivar can’t help but smile at what is happening. Sansa has told him of how Jon announced her regency right before he left for Dragonstone.

_My brilliant wife, turnabout is fair play._

Sansa herself looks completely serious, but Ivar can read the amusement in her eyes as she watches Jon process.

Jon nods towards her after he finally closes his mouth.

The Northern Lords and Ladies remain quiet since Sansa is still speaking. “If any of you have any complaints with my regent, you are free to try and convince Arya to rule in my stead.”

The entire room but Ivar and Jon turn towards Arya, standing at the back of the room and brandishing her knife casually. Looking up with a fierce expression, she asks. “What?”

The hall is silent in its agreement. Arya Stark would sooner kill them all then have to deal with their problems. Jon Snow may not be the best ambassador, but he was a merciful king and with all the systems Sansa has in place, they doubt he can mess up that much.

Arya is eager to be off. Ivar thinks she may be addicted to it now; voyaging, discovering, and adventuring. Sansa agrees with him though it breaks her heart a little.

Her last voyage was much more pleasant than the last. After Ragnar’s assistance and using England as a reference point, that portion of the globe pulls itself together, almost on its own.

Her voyage was blessed with good, strong winds, and the people she’s met have been friendly if a little wary.

After a sennight at home, the only thing keeping her on land is the resupplying of her boat and what repairs need to be done. Gendry has gifted her with something he calls a “canon” which launches a solid metal sphere using the combustion of a black powder that Arya had brought back from her last trip.

Arya won’t say it, but these are the reasons she loves Gendry. How he never tries to hold her back, how he entertains her craziest ideas, how he waits for her, always.

It is because of these things that she asks him to come with them on this voyage.

__

__

_ TWO NIGHTS BEFORE DEPARTURE _

It is the middle of the night. Ivar sits on the floor by the foot of the bed, unable to sleep and unwilling to wake his sleeping wife with his tossing and turning.

He sits with his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire that roars brightly in the fireplace, thinking about what his return will be like. How Sansa will react to the customs of his people, their sacrifices, rituals, and slaves. He knows that they do not have these customs in Westeros.

He has warned Sansa of these things of course. She says, “It is not my place to insist my beliefs unto your people, but do not expect my participation or approval of these things.” Which, to be honest, is better than he expects.

Thank the Gods for Sansa. He doesn’t think anyone else could put up with him and also keep him from going out of control like she does. She calms the storm of rage that blows silently inside of him with just a look. He hopes he does something of the same for her.

_And now I bring her out of her home to a new and strange land for a war she has no business in._

His musings are interrupted by the appearance of a slim leg over his shoulder. He didn’t hear Sansa wake, too lost in his thoughts.

He grasps the pale leg by the calf and turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of her knee. “Did I wake you?” He mumbles, lips still ghosting over her soft skin.

Her other leg comes to rest on his left shoulder as well. “I no longer sleep as well without you beside me.”

Her words make Ivar smile, and he can feel her bend in half to press a kiss to the top of his head. Sansa’s unbound red hair flows around them like a curtain. “Go back to bed.” He tells her.

“With you thinking this loud, I’m afraid that is simply impossible.” Ivar looks up into her eyes. The flames dance in them and he sees how concerned she is.

“What is on your mind, Ivar?”

He sighs and closes his eyes. “I worry.”

“About?” She prods.

“About my brothers’ reactions to my arrival, about how they’ll feel knowing I left Ragnar to go on his own knowing full well what was going to happen to him, about you and how you’ll feel about meeting my people.” He replies with a sigh.

“Those are heavy thoughts, Ivar.”

“I know, love.”

Sansa pulls some of her hair behind her ear and cradles his face with her hands. “Come along now. I’d rather speak of these things in a more comfortable position, wouldn’t you?”

Ivar looks up at her and waggles his eyebrows salaciously. “A more comfortable position? The answer to that will always be yes, my wolf wife.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and crawls back into bed. “Get back into bed, Ivar.” She extends a hand towards him and he is hapless to deny her anything, as always.

Once they position themselves comfortably under the furs, Ivar on his side with Sansa holding him around the shoulders from behind, she brushes his hair back with her fingers and asks. “Start from the beginning, Ivar. Tell me your troubles.”

Ivar allows himself to be held and they stay speaking like that for the rest of the night.

When Ivar wakes, he feels much lighter. He turns to see his wife’s sleeping face. He hasn’t told her, but she’s started drooling in her sleep and she lets out the cutest little snores. He thinks maybe it’s because she rests more deeply with him beside her, around her, _inside her_. 

_What did I do to deserve you?_

He realizes he said it out loud when she replies. “There’s no deserving, Ivar. I love you; you love me. That is the long and the short of it.”

He pushes their faces closer together, content to just look into her eyes.

“Right as usual, my wolf wife.” He says with a smile.

They start their morning as they always have since the start of their marriage, with a kiss.

_ DAY OF DEPARTURE- CRYPTS _

Ivar doesn’t usually go down to the crypts with his wife. It is strange to him, having to imagine what these people might have looked like based on their stone artifices. Never mind the fact that the souls inside are fated forever to remain in the walls of Winterfell instead of reaching the heavens.

But he and Sansa don’t push each other on matters of faith and custom. Those things seem so trivial in the face of what they have.

_Love. Maybe the Christians are right to worship it after all._

Later in the morning, after they have broken their fasts and said their final goodbyes to Jon, Ghost, and the people of Winterfell.

Jon patted him on the back and hugged him, which surprised everyone. Jon shook him by the shoulders and told him. “Watch over my sisters and yourself, brother.”

“Of course. I swear no harm will come to Sansa at least. Arya may go looking for trouble and you know she can’t be stopped.”

Jon chuckled. “I know.” He shook his head and Sansa approached them to give Jon a hug.

“Take care of my kingdom and yourself, Jon.”

Jon kissed her on the cheek and swore to do so.

Ghost gets the biggest hug from Sansa. Ivar is almost jealous. “Watch over Jon, boy. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Ghost nudged his big head into her abdomen in agreement as Jon spluttered behind them.

Now, they are in the crypts. Sansa lights candles for each of her relatives and asks for their blessing for their journey, their help watching over her kingdom, and (he blushes) for a fruitful and happy marriage.

“Why you feel the need to speak to them of such matters, I have no idea.”

“Hush you and let me pray.”

He lets her have her silence as she prays, but before they can leave the crypts he grasps her arm to tell her something.

“...I haven’t thanked you yet for not making me choose.”

“I’ve told you there is no decision to be made. No one should have to choose between their heart and their family.” She trails off, remembering Rhaegar and Lyanna as they pass her aunt’s statue, and herself as a child when she chose Joffrey over her family in King’s Landing.

“A heart should never be in conflict with itself, Ivar, so I will never make you choose.”

Ivar pulls her close and kisses her forehead. “Still, I thank you, my Sansa, my heart.”

Sansa accepts the affection with a smile, responding with a kiss to his chin and a smile. She pulls them out of the crypts, and they go to visit the Godswood to pray.

At the Godswood, they are met by Ser Jonnel and other members of her Queensguard. Ivar has argued with her about this, but she insists only on bringing Ser Podrick Payne and Ser Willem Snow.

_“Will my fiercest protector not be with me while we are there anyway?”_

Ser Jonnel and the others will watch over Jon who bristles at all the eyes on him, but does not complain. At least he gets to train while he’s here.

Ser Jonnel carries with him a strangely shiny sword. Ivar can see from his spot by the heart tree that it is wickedly sharp. The metal gleams brighter than even Jon’s sword which he calls Longclaw. The pommel is decorated with the head of a snarling wolf made of inlaid silver.

Ivar kind of wants to fight the man for it. Whether that is because he wants the sword or simply wants to beat Ser Jonnel bloody, he doesn’t really know, nor does he care.

Before he can offer the challenge, Ser Jonnel walks up to them with the sword in his outstretched palms and bows at the waist. “Your Grace, you requested Ice Shard be brought to you today.”

Sansa lets go of his arm to grasp the sword in her hands and turns to Ivar. “This is Ice Shard, forged from the ancient valyrian steel greatsword of House Stark: Ice. Its sister: Oathkeeper, is wielded by my brother’s guard in the South.”

She continues. “One in the South and one in the North, so that Ice may ever watch over House Stark. This sword is usually given to the head of the house, but as I am no warrior, I have not had use for it, until now.”

She offers the sword to him now. “And so I bequeath this to you, Ivar, dear husband. That you will protect House Stark with it to the best of your abilities.”

Ivar kneels on one knee before her in front of the heart tree to swear it. He raises his hands in supplication and she presses the sword into his hands. It is surprisingly light, but Ivar can feel the sharp edges of it even now.

Lowering it onto his bent knee, he sees how the sword gleams and how the light ripples over the steel. It is so clear he can see the reflection of his blue eyes on it. He sees the light flash over it and the image is replaced by the eyes of a man with solemn grey eyes. It sort of looks like Jon, or Arya, but just as soon as it appears, it is replaced again by the reflection of his own eyes.

After his examination of it, Ivar stands and is handed the sheath by Ser Jonnel. He thanks his wife by pressing a kiss to her temples and telling her he loves her.

“Leave us.” She dismisses her Queensguard.

“I didn’t realize we were getting each other gifts.” He says as soon as the Queensguard are out of hearing distance.

“I am not opposed to certain acts of _service_ in compensation.” She winks at him.

The audacity of his wife sometimes, he rolls his eyes. “I’m being serious, Sansa. Thank you.”

She is thoughtfully silent for a while before she responds. “Protect yourself, Ivar. I know we are headed to war but know that you carry my heart with you when you go into battle. Be smart. Be fierce.”

Her words touch him. He isn’t used to being worried about, not like this. “Gods, I love you, Sansa.” He grasps her face with his free hand and presses their lips together.

_ WINTER’S DAUGHTER _

The winds have been favourable so far. The winds push the boat through the high seas. The sails, Ivar notices are larger than any Floki has ever made. It is not as fast as a Viking longship, but the size and comfort on it is not anything to scoff at.

They pass the time playing cyvasse, speaking, and enjoying more conjugal pursuits in the dead of night.

Today, Ivar has convinced Sansa to try and learn how to defend herself. Ivar has tried teaching her close combat and grappling, but they both find themselves too quick to certain distractions when that is the case.

Arya and Gendry leave them to their own devices most of the time. Though they laugh discreetly, they are guilty of the same things and know that they have no room to talk.

Sansa holds the bow in her right hand. A small wooden target stands a few feet away arrows are littered on the ground some are embedded in the post’s stomach.

“Again.”

Sansa groans in frustration but notches another arrow anyway.

“Loose.”

She lets it fly and it lands in the post’s middle, still not making it to the head like Ivar wants it to.

“You’re still dropping your elbow on release, wife.” He says from beside her.

“Ivar, please. Can we continue this tomorrow?” Sansa asks, lowering the bow.

“No.” He replies swiftly. “I feel it. We are close now, and that means you have to be prepared.”

“Now, again.”

Sansa’s arms ache, but she knows this is only coming from a place of concern, so she complies. To her surprise, Ivar stands directly behind her, his breath at her ear. He grasps her failing left arm with his own to support it.

Sansa notches another arrow, pulls it back until the apple of her cheek. She can feel his fingers dancing on the shoulder of her right arm as it pull back the bowstring.

Ivar whispers breathily into her ear now. “Loose.”

The arrow soars and misses completely to sail over the stern. They watch as it flies, narrowly missing a bird, and falls into the sea. They stand in that position for a while longer, processing how much that had just failed, then burst into laughter.

They are bent at the waist, struggling for breath, in complete hysterics. They must look like complete fools. The crew will not mention it, but Arya standing by the bow certainly will at dinner tonight.

“That did not go the way I thought.” Ivar says, still chuckling a little.

That pushes Sansa into more laughter.

_ LATER THAT NIGHT _

Ivar, Sansa, Gendry, and Arya sit in the captain’s quarters after dinner. They sit on some ornate chairs in front of the large window that makes up most of the back of the ship.

Sansa leans her head against Ivar’s shoulder, fast asleep. Gendry is beginning to nod off in his seat. His arms crossed and his head bobbing up and down comically as he fights not to doze.

Ivar and Arya sit in silence sharpening knives and watching the sea.

Arya stabs the knife into the armrest of her chair and turns to him. “So what’s your plan, Ivar?”

Ivar sheathes his knife in his arm brace and wraps his free arm around his wife. He starts brushing her hair back and she snuggles further into his shoulder. Once she settles, Ivar answers Arya’s question. “My brothers will have been informed of my father’s death. They, and all of our people will want to avenge him.”

Arya nods along at first then begins shaking her head. “Wasn’t your father a pariah after he returned? Why would your people want to avenge him?”

Ivar acknowledges her confusion and answers her to the best of his ability. “Ragnar was a pariah at the end, but for a long time before that, he was a legend. People heralded him as nearly a god, so did I, I admit. More than his worth as a father, which to be honest with you was not much, we—his sons—have a duty to avenge him. A duty to our family, our people, and our Gods.”

Arya scoffs and leans back into her seat. “I can understand vengeance, believe me, but war?”

Ivar sighs. “War is simply the way of our people.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “Sansa isn’t a big fan of war.”

“I know.”

“We each have our own ways of preventing wars, you know. We’ve done it before. She’s a much better negotiator, politician than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“And you?”

“And I-I prefer to let one woman do the job right than to have scores of men do the job wrong.”

Ivar chuckles quietly but stops when he hears Sansa grumble incoherently. He strokes her long red hair to calm her and presses a kiss to her head.

He speaks whispers into the room. “I worry. I worry that I am not as ruthless as I need to be in order to win this.”

Picking the knife back up to spin it around, Arya probes. “Why’s that?”

“Your sister makes me too happy. I forget my anger when she’s around, and I feel like I might fail because of it.”

Arya scoffs at him. “Only the weak need anger to kill. The strong need only opportunity. And you know what? Anger is an unreliable motivator. It drives you sooner to madness rather than victory.”

They are silent a while longer and Gendry’s loud snores and Sansa’s light ones fill the room. He feels a wetness on his shoulder. Sansa’s drooling again.

It is comfortable, but Ivar does not like the haunted look that passes over his sister-in-law’s eyes. Trying to lighten the mood, he asks. “So... how are you and Gendry coming along?”

“Do you really want to ask me that while there are so many sharp implements about?”

Ivar raises his free hand in a gesture of surrender. They watch the dawn climb over the sea and fill the room with a soft orange glow.

At the same time, a call from above the deck calls out. “Land ahoy!”

They approach a dock that is filled with ships. The water is too shallow for them to go up by the docks so they drop anchor further out, sheltered by the inward curve of a cliff.

The crew lowers a smaller boat that Sansa, Ivar, Arya and Gendry row into the docks. Gendry deserves most of the credit for doing all of the actual rowing.

“Careful Gendry. I don’t want us to be rowing around in circles for 4 years.” Arya quips.

In response, Gendry uses an oar to splash her with sea water. Arya laughs.

_ KATTEGAT _

The docks are never still. People are everywhere, preparing oars, unloading ships, and fixing boats. When Ivar and his company get closer, he sees the towering figures of four of his brothers. Bjorn stands at the centre, Hvitserk on one side, and Ubbe and Sigurd on the other.

Lagertha stands with a group of her shield maidens on another dock, but Ivar is determined not to pay her any mind whatsoever lest his temper make him break his promise to his father.

His brothers are ready to help him off the boat but are surprised to see him stand on his own. He gets onto the dock and offers a hand down to Sansa to help her get up as well. She smiles at the gesture and takes his hand. Arya ties the boat onto a post and Gendry sets aside the oars.

Ivar runs to his shocked brothers to give them a hug. “Ubbe! Hvitserk!”

“Brother! We’ve missed you.” Ubbe says, ruffling his hair while Hvitserk shakes him by the shoulders.

Sigurd pats him on the arm and they nod at each other. Bjorn still stands at the end of the dock, waiting for them to come to him. Before they can get further, he turns his brothers to Sansa and takes her hand. “Brothers, this is my wife, Queen Sansa Stark of the North.”

Sansa curtsies gracefully to his brothers. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Siggurd. Ivar has told me a lot about you.”

Ubbe and Hvitserk don’t know how to react to being curtseyed at and Sigurd is too busy looking at Ivar standing on his own in amazement.

Ivar whispers into Sansa’s ear. “I told you they’d be shocked stupid at you.” Sansa smacks his chest at the joke, but she can’t help the smile that blooms on her face.

Ubbe recovers first and nods his head at her. “Nice to meet you, Queen Sansa.”

After thumping both of his brothers from behind the head, Hvitserk and Sigurd greet Sansa as well. They move forward as a group towards Bjorn who grasps Ivar by the shoulder strongly. “Brother. It is good to see you well. Who is this?”

“Bjorn, this is my wife, Sansa.” Sansa curtsies to him as well and Bjorn hugs her strong enough to lift her. “It is nice to meet you. I never though Ivar here, would be married before any of my other brothers.”

Sansa pushes him away and straightens her skirts, the smile has melted off her face and her expression is cold. “I would appreciate you not do that again, but it is nice to meet you, Bjorn.”

Bjorn only laughs and they are ushered towards the great hall of Kattegat.

Arya and Gendry get onto the docks. Arya will deny it until her dying day, but her first thought at seeing Kattegat and its people was not one of curiosity nor adventure, but of frustration.

_Why in the fuck is everyone here so tall?!_

Gendry, knowing Arya well enough, knows exactly what she’s thinking, but he also knows well enough not to laugh. They follow Sansa and Ivar to the great hall.

_ GREAT HALL KATTEGAT _

Lagertha somehow beats them back to the hall. She is seated on her throne. Astrid and Torvi on one side, while she is surrounded by shieldmaidens and warriors.

“We welcome you home, Ivar, son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and we welcome also his companions.”

The attendants of the hall wait for him to answer with bated breath. They suspect he will attempt to kill Lagertha or at least threaten her, knowing she killed his mother. Ivar surprises them by doing none of these things.

He simply nods to her in greeting and refrains from looking at her.

Lagertha is surprised at this, but she will not ask questions. If he will not threaten her, then she has no reason to probe him further. She will assume he has let it be water under the bridge.

“Who are these people you have brought with you?”

Ivar looks up from his feet and up at the woman standing at his side.

She has the strangest and most vivid colored hair Lagertha has ever seen. Red as blood, but she imagines it can lighten to the color of flames in the correct light.

“This is my wife, Queen Sansa Stark of the North.” Gesturing behind him to the small woman with a strangely thin sword at her side and the broad-shouldered man that stands beside her, he continues. “This is my good-sister, Captain Arya Stark, and a dear friend and blacksmith, Gendry Baratheon.”

They exchange small nods.

Once the formalities are done with, Lagertha steps from her throne to embrace Ivar, but he flinches back and growls out. “Don’t touch me.”

Surprised at his sudden change in tone, Lagertha steps back.

“I may have promised my father before he left to die that I would not kill you, but that does not mean that I can ever forgive you for killing my mother, Lagertha.”

So saying, he takes his leave, bringing his companions with him to the cabin he shares with his brothers.

Seeing the lack of comforts that Sansa is used to is enough to make him ashamed, but Sansa doesn’t mind it and she tells him just that.

“I’ve had to sleep on the cold hard ground and in the hollows of dead trees in the middle of a snowstorm. Ivar,” She turns his face toward her with a finger under his chin. “this is perfectly fine”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just stay in the boat?”

“You’re home and you deserve to spend as much time as you want with your brothers. I won’t take away even a second of it by insisting we travel back and forth from the boat every day when this is perfectly fine.” She replies with a smile and a kiss on the hollow of his neck.

Arya and Gendry have slipped away. Both Sansa and Ivar know they’ll be fine.

“So, shall we test out this bed of yours?”

“...My wolf wife is insatiable...”

“Was that a complaint I heard, husband?”

“Not at all, wife.”

_ NIGHT-GREAT HALL OF KATTEGAT _

People have gathered in the great hall to celebrate the arrival of the last of Ragnar’s sons. The man of the hour stands behind his wife seated at the main table in the centre of the room. Everyone in attendance is surprised to see him standing rather than crawling or sitting.

Ivar only wishes his mother could see it as well, could meet Sansa, their future children should they have any, and the reason she won’t be able to sits on the throne. Sansa, as if sensing the change in his mood, grabs the hand Ivar rests on her shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze.

It clears the miasma of anger Ivar felt brewing in his mind. Everyone has been pleasant so far.

Ubbe is perfectly polite, too excited about his own approaching nuptials to feel anything other than happiness at his brother’s return. Hvitserk’s looks towards her and Margrethe bother her a little, but he’s been harmless so far. Sigurd looks wary of Ivar now that he’s standing. Bjorn is very friendly and she absolutely loves Torvi and the children.

A tall bald man with a tattoo on his forehead enters with a blonde woman who holds a trembling little girl in her arms. Sansa is immediately wary. She does not like the idea of kidnapped children.

She taps Ivar’s hand with her index finger twice to signal him and get his attention. Ivar sees the man and smiles widely before whispering in her ear. “That is Floki, his wife Helga and... a slave?”

She makes sure her face is impassive, and she turns her head away, but her grip on his hand tightens enough to hurt when he mentions that the little girl might be a slave. Ivar gets the message, so he waves Floki over. Maybe there is an acceptable explanation for this.

Floki swaggers over to him. “By Odin! The cripple walks. Hel must be freezing over.”

“I’m surprised you’re still standing you spindly-legged, knock-kneed boatbuilder.” Ivar approaches him with arms open and they hug. He has told Sansa about the man who basically raised him.

“Was that your ship by the cliffs? I’ve never seen a ship like that before.”

“Not my ship, no. That’s my sister-in-law’s ship.”

Floki pushes his fist onto Ivar's head. “In-law? What ugly broad was desperate enough to let you marry her?!”

Sansa takes that as her cue. “That would be me.” She says, gliding up beside Ivar who puts an arm around her waist, casually possessive.

Ivar basically preens when he introduces her. Contrary to expectations, it’s actually been getting worse every time he’s done it.

Helga goes up to them with the child in her arms. The friendly look Sansa wears fades completely and is replaced by ice. She does not approve of holding children hostage, not after having to live through that nightmare most of her life.

Ivar coughs to clear up the tension. “Helga.” He nods in respect. “Who is this?” When Ivar reaches his hand out to the child, she starts struggling even worse. “I won’t hurt you.” He says putting his hand down, but the girl is inconsolable.

“She’s my child.” Helga replies, trying and failing to calm her down.

At her words, Ivar looks to Floki in confusion who shrugs his shoulders, but Sansa just watches the woman.

Not one to rush in immediately or pick a fight without a plan first, Sansa doesn’t say anything to that but resolves to observe her and do what she can for the child.

Helga brings the child out of the hall. Sansa’s eyes follow them.

Ivar kisses her temple in good-bye as he goes to speak with Floki. Almost as soon as he is out of sight, Sansa is approached by Ubbe’s betrothed, Margrethe.

She pulls Sansa towards the back of the room to a more discreet area of the hall. In the dark corner that Sansa is pulled into, Margrethe speaks to her desperately.

“Are you alright? Did he threaten you?”

“Who?”

“Ivar, of course!”

“Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

“Ivar is-is a monster. I-he lay with me once.” At this, Sansa’s eyebrows raise in disbelief at this woman’s nerve, mentioning her history with Ivar in front of his wife?

Sansa’s goes steely and her voice is cold. “Oh?”

“Yes, and he threatened to kill me when he couldn’t-“

“I will stop you right there, Margrethe.” Sansa says, getting closer to the woman to speak lowly in her ear. “I warn you now. Watch the way you speak about my husband. I will not tolerate any slander against him.”

“But he-“

“You do not have my permission to speak.” Sansa cuts in. “I don’t want or need to know about any history of my husband from _you_. I know him far better than you ever will, so you will watch your tongue unless you want to lose it.”

Margrethe makes to grab her by the shoulders, but a hand quickly stops it in its tracks. “Margrethe.” Ivar nods at her. The woman scurries away in fear.

“Sansa, love?” Ivar asks her, turning a concerned look towards her.

Sansa presses her face into his chest when he takes her into his arms. He strokes her hair knowing how it comforts her. “Don’t think you’ve been saved from a questioning, husband.”

Ivar sighs in disappointment but nods and presses a kiss to her crown in reply. “Of course not, love.”

Later when they go back to their room, Ivar confesses it all to his wife in bed. Unable to look into her disappointed expression, unable to face her rejection, he turns away from her, but is stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

When he turns back, Sansa is sitting on her knees on the bed. “Ivar, I wish you had told me before today.”

She lies back down onto his shoulder. Still too afraid to look at her and see rejection, Ivar keeps his gaze averted. Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, Sansa asks. “Won’t you look at me, Ivar?”

Unable to deny her, even in his fear, Ivar looks down to her. She keeps her eyes on his as she tells him. “I love you, Ivar. I married all that you were, all that you are, and all that you will be. You are mine as I am yours.”

“Gods, I love you, too.” Ivar says in relief, pressing their lips together passionately as he pulls her over him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Heathen Army prepares for war

_ KATTEGAT _

Ivar wakes in a very pleasant mood. He is home in Kattegat and he and his brothers will take revenge on the Saxons that killed their father.

Sansa snoozes beside him, her entire right side nearly completely uncovered by the furs. She isn’t drooling right now, but her soft snores fill the space. Kattegat in autumn is by no means hot, but compared to the ever-present snows of Winterfell, you could call it balmy.

He doesn’t want to give his brothers the opportunity to barge in and see his wife like this, so he prepares to leave. After putting his leg braces in place, he bends down to wish Sansa good-bye, not begrudging her the extra hours of sleep considering last night was full of _activity_.

“Sansa, I’m going to speak to my brothers.” He whispers right into her ear. “Sleep in a few more hours, okay?”

Sansa pushes herself up from the pillows slightly, uncaring about her nudity. Eyes still crusted shut, she yawns. “Okay.”

“Love you.” He says kissing her lightly on the lips.

“Mhmm. Love you, too.” She replies, already on the way back to sleep.

Ivar goes to the great hall to meet with his brothers to discuss the Great Army, and most likely who will lead it.

As he walks, Ivar notes that though Kattegat looks nearly unchanged, it no longer feels like home. He wonders why. His house still felt like his house. Everything should feel the same. It should feel as if he is returning home after a long journey away. Maybe it is because his mother is no longer here to always be running after him or shadowing him. Maybe it is because Lagertha rules as queen.

Everything seems so unfamiliarly familiar, like coming home to a friend that no longer remembers you. Ivar feels almost like he has outgrown this Kattegat. He’s only arrived, but already part of him longs to go back to Winterfell.

As he passes by the docks, he sees Arya, Gendry, Wylla, Wynafryd, and Sansa’s two guards row ashore. It’s a tight fit on the boat and he can see the way it nearly topples over at Wylla’s excited exit of the boat. The people there are surprised and curious about her green hair, he can see.

What they must think of him after bringing his strangely colored companions here. First, his red-haired wife, and now this green-haired girl who looks ready to go running in the streets if only her older sister will release her hand.

Wynafryd eyes all the armed people milling about suspiciously, but in her experience it is not exactly a good idea to pull out a weapon when you aren’t being threatened, especially not when you’re in unfamiliar territory.

Gendry and Arya disappear in the crowd. How they did it, Ivar doubts he’ll find out. Arya, he can believe given her stature and swiftness, but big bulky Gendry?

Ser Podrick and Willem approach him, and Ivar directs them to his house with instructions not to enter, but to follow Sansa as closely as possible as soon as she is out and about.

Thinking he has dawdled long enough, Ivar heads to the great hall to meet with his brothers.

There, he sees Bjorn seated on the steps to the throne, Ubbe and Hvitserk at their usual seats, Sigurd in his, and Lagertha upon the throne. Though it boils his blood to see her there, he does nothing. Perhaps Bjorn doesn’t believe him about his promise not to kill Lagertha so he sits as a buffer between Aslaug’s sons and his mother. Ivar takes his seat, adjusting his leg braces a little to allow him to sit comfortably.

There is food on the table to Ivar grabs a piece of bread to eat and gestures at a servant for some water. Ale has never really suited him, and wine is much the same. He’ll drink some on occasion in order to blend in, but he doesn’t really drink more than a cup or two.

He remembers fondly the warm honey lemon tea that Sansa always has a kettle of in their room. It’s a strange drink, but Ivar and Sansa prefer it over any of the other drinks.

Ubbe is the first to speak to him. “So, Ivar, where have you been?”

“And where’d you find a wife?” Hvitserk adds.

Ivar wipes his mouth with a clean scrap of cloth before speaking. His wife is a stickler for proper courtesy and manners when around guests.

Clearing his throat and drinking some water, Ivar has them wait a little longer. He does enjoy the attention. “When father and I left, our ships were beset by a huge storm as mother predicted.” Lagertha shifts in her seat at the mention of his mother.

_Good. I hope the mere mention of her bothers you for the rest of your life._

“Waves tall as mountains thrashed us about like toys.” Ivar continues, gesturing with his hands. “When we woke up, we were alone on an abandoned shore. We found the closest settlement, a city called White Harbor, and they told us that we were in a place called Westeros.”

“Westeros?” Bjorn looks up from his hands. “Where is that?”

“I don’t actually know. If that journey taught me anything, it’s that I’m not the explorer type of Viking.”

“Continue.” Lagertha commands. Ivar tries to hold in an eye-roll, he fails.

“As I was saying, we were told that we landed in Westeros and that no one but a Captain Arya Stark could see us home. We were handed off to another castle, Winterfell, where we met Queen Sansa and Arya along with a bunch of other people like-”

“How can you stand?” Sigurd cuts in.

“Quite easily now, thank you for asking.” Ivar snidely replies. Leaning back into his seat completely, Ivar shrugs. “The blacksmith I met there, Gendry Baratheon, made them for me. I’d suspect he’s part dwarf, but he is actually quite tall.”

Ivar crosses his arms then resumes with his narration. “We stayed there for two months, give or take a few days. When Arya was ready to leave, Ragnar told me about mother’s death at your hands!” He directs the last part at Lagertha who tenses in response. Bjorn’s hand clenches into a fist, but it’s unnecessary. Ivar only wants to ruffle a few feathers. Can’t let them ever forget the fact that Lagertha is a murderous bitch.

Ivar chuckles a little at the reaction and leans both his arms on the table in front of him. “When we were about to set sail, Ragnar told me to stay but had me promise him not to take revenge on Lagertha for mother’s death in return. I stayed in Winterfell, and two months later I married my wife.”

“How did you find out about father’s death, Ivar?” Ubbe asks.

“About the same way you did, I imagine. Odin came.” Ivar responds casually, as if seeing the Allfather was a regular occurrence to him and not a miracle.

Once his interrogation is finished, they spend the rest of the morning discussing who else is coming and when to leave for England. It turns out that Ivar is right on time, as they plan on leaving three days from now. They will join with the other armies on England, from the north-eastern shore, they travel to Northumbria and take revenge on Aelle first.

The briefing over and done with. Hvitserk turns to him to ask. “When all this is done, Ivar, what do you plan on doing?”

“I plan on going home, to Winterfell.”

Sigurd reacts angrily to this. “Like our uncle Rollo?” He spits at the name. “You would abandon your people to be king of a new land?”

Ivar can feel his temper rising. “No, Sigurd, not like Rollo. I am fortunate enough that my wife insists on befriending you so that I am not put into a position against you.”

“But if you were put in a position to defend your new home against your family, would you do it?” Lagertha asks.

“For Sansa? Without question.” Ivar replies fiercely.

Ubbe, ever the mediator, decides that the line of discussion will bring them nowhere. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that then. In the meantime, who will lead our great army?”

Bjorn and Ivar answer simultaneously. “Me.”

_ STREETS OF KATTEGAT _

Sansa leaves the house at noon positively starving. Pod and Willem meet her outside the house and she appreciates the privacy they allowed her. They bring her a pouch of gold and silver coins as she goes in search of breakfast. Her nose leads her to a stall away from the docks selling strange bloody looking steaks.

They taste like iron and dry out her mouth. Sansa loves it and buys some for Pod and Willem as well.

Hunger sated, Sansa continues walking around and getting to know Ivar’s home. She understands the strange looks she gets as she walks by. Torvi told her that they’ve never seen someone with red hair before. She does not understand however, the strange looks Podrick and Wyllem get. Maybe it’s the armour? She hasn’t seen anyone else wearing breastplates or metal pauldrons, but Sansa isn’t about to tell them to take it off just so that they can fit in. It doesn’t escape her notice that nearly everyone she meets is armed in some way.

She spots Torvi walking with Guthrum, Hali, and Asa further down the way. When she approaches, Hali spots her first and gives an excited yell. “Queen Sa-sa! Queen Sa-sa!”

Honestly, the child is far too cute. He barrels right into her skirts and nearly topples them over in his excited tackle. “Hello to you too, little Hali.”

He reaches his hands up towards her and she can’t refuse those stubby little arms with those big blue eyes. Sansa picks him up and walks over to Torvi who carries Asa. “Hello Torvi, Guthrum, and little baby Asa.”

Torvi greets her back with a smile. “Hello, Sansa. Have a good sleep last night?” Sansa blushes in response and covers Hali’s ears. “Yes, indeed I did, Torvi.” She replies brightly anyway.

Torvi laughs. Sex is a much less taboo topic for them than Sansa is used to. As they walk together, Guthrum running ahead and playing around with other children while Pod and Willem walk behind them, Sansa spots Margrethe speaking to Hvitserk.

Initially Sansa thinks nothing of it and is about to turn the other way when they start kissing passionately in full view of people walking around.

_Isn’t she marrying Ubbe?!_

Taking a look around to see if anyone else is shocked by this so that she can have a clue how to react, she spots Ubbe looking in the same direction. His face is an odd mixture of hurt and understanding.

Ivar told her last night how Margrethe has slept with all of his brothers, but she assumed that with Margrethe marrying Ubbe that she had chosen one of them.

_I guess I was wrong._

With Ubbe and Hvitserk out and about, she guesses that the meeting is finished. She excuses herself from Torvi and the children and goes to search for her husband.

Ivar has been walking behind them for a few moments now. Every few steps, he is greeted by some people, amazed by his ability to walk. He hadn’t alerted Sansa to his presence. He doesn’t know why. Something about the look of Sansa holding a child in her arms fills him with longing. They haven’t really talked about children yet, but he knows Sansa wants a whole troupe of them.

Ivar fears he may not be able to give her children, or that what children he may give her will be crippled like him. His life was difficult. A large portion of it was filled with pain and ridicule. It always circles back to his deformed legs somehow. He doesn’t want to curse another child in the same way, but at the same time he’s not sure if he can deny Sansa anything she asked for.

When Sansa puts Hali down and makes her excuses, Ivar takes it as his sign to go to his wife. He casually yet discreetly walks up beside her as she goes looking for him and asks. “Who are we looking for?”

Sansa yelps a little in surprise, and turns a playful glare at him and her guards. “My troublesome husband, how long have you been watching me look for you, pray tell?”

Ivar shrugs his shoulders and puts an arm on the small of her back. “Just a few minutes. You must not have been looking hard enough if you missed me walking right beside you.”

“Hush you.” She turns to stop him from making any more remarks by giving him a kiss on the lips. Chaste as it is, it works (it always does). “I was wondering if you’ve seen Arya around.”

Still a bit dazed, kissing his wife is always a novel experience, he hums thoughtfully before answering. “Hmm, I think I need another kiss to help me remember.”

Sansa responds by leaning close as if to comply and then abruptly tugging the queue at the back of his braided head.

“Oh, how my precious wife treats me!” Ivar laughs. Seeing Sansa’s unamused look, Ivar puts his arms up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I saw her and Gendry slip into the crowd earlier this morning. Don’t worry.” He says, placing both arms on her tense shoulders.

Sansa sighs and relaxes his hold. Ivar continues. “She’ll be fine, Sansa. She’s got Gendry to look after, I doubt she’ll have enough time to get into any trouble.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, but she does acknowledge the accuracy of his answer. “By the way, I was wondering what the circumstances are with Hvitserk, Ubbe, and Margrethe.” She raises her eyebrows questioningly. “Should we be expecting a duel between brothers so soon before we leave for England?”

“Oh, them? I’m very sure they’re planning on sharing her?”

“Sh-sharing her?!” Sansa splutters and exclaims. “Is that done here?”

“Well, it isn’t the most common arrangement, but yes. Margrethe is _well-acquainted_ with my brothers.” He winks.

Sansa raises one eyebrow. “And you as well?”

Ivar flinches. “You know how that went. I’ve never really been with a woman until you, and I don’t plan on being with any more of them.”

Sansa blushes, so Ivar decides to tease her some. “Now you blush? After what you were saying last ni-“

Sansa interrupts him with another chaste kiss and he is silenced.

_Works every time._

_ DOCKS- KATTEGAT _

King Harald watches over the docks as the other kings and jarls arrived in Kattegat. He stands under the shade of a small shanty and leans against the post next to his brother, Halfdan.

He scans the crowd casually, not at all hiding what he is doing. He spots the young green-haired girl attached to her sister running about the different fishing stalls. He sees Ivar walking with his new wife as they are trailed by her Saxon-looking guards. Oddly enough, he can’t spot the little girl they came in with yesterday, nor her burly-looking bodyguard.

Harald does not much care for these people. They are not Christians, but they are not Viking either, so he does not feel the need to spare much thought for them, especially because they all seem so friendly.

_It’s not as fun to raid when there’s not a struggle first._

Harald is half-sure Ivar’s smitten wife will let them settle in her lands without a fuss.

The romantic side of him that began this journey to be King of Norway to earn the love of a woman can admit that their story is idyllic and almost too good to be true. He can’t begrudge poor Ivar any happiness in life. The young man has had it hard enough, being born a cripple along with the pressure and honour of being a son of Ragnar Lothbrok.

_Oh, to be young and in love._

He remembers his dear Princess Ellisif who started him on this great ambition, her blonde hair and gentle green eyes. Her spirit and bravery in claiming that he, as a king, did not yet deserve her affections.

Almost as if he summons her with his thoughts, he spies her at the end of the docks. She wears a dark blue cloak, but he’ll know her anywhere. There stands his Ellisif at the end of the docks and she’s looking right at him.

He’s been far too afraid to face her before becoming King of all Norway. He doesn’t think he can take another rejection, so he’s chosen to stay away rather than give her reason to reject him.

He nudges Halfdan. “Look.”

Halfdan stands straighter and looks in her general direction, not seeing anything of importance he turns to his dreamy-eyed brother. “What?”

Breathily, Harald tells him. “Don’t you see her?”

“Who? Who’s there?”

“Don’t you see her? It’s her!”

“No, it’s not.” Halfdan says, already looking away.

“It’s her! I know it is.” Harald insists. “That was the woman who made me believe I had to be King of all Norway before she would marry me. That is my Princess Ellisif. I’d know her anywhere. I think of her every day of my life.”

Halfdan looks at her in suspicion. “But what is she doing here?”

Harald looks back at him, upset at his words, so Halfdan pats him on the back. “Well then, why don’t you go say hello?”

_ UBBE AND MARGRETHE’S WEDDING _

Ivar sits off to the side on a nearby felled tree, Sansa sits next to him leaning on his shoulder. His leg braces off for a reason as he does not want to stand around for an entire wedding. He’s happy for Ubbe, make no mistake. He just doesn’t want to stand for an entire ceremony he doesn’t actually need to be a part of.

Sansa pinches him to keep him awake and he holds in a yelp. Wouldn’t want to take attention away from the main event now, especially as it is finally winding down. Ubbe would kill him.

Hvitserk hands over the ring and stands far too close to Margrethe to be inconspicuous. The priestess dips the ring in blood then hands it to Ubbe to place on Margrethe’s finger. She then proclaims. “And so I name you man and wife.”

Turning to Margrethe, she flicks the remaining blood on her hands onto the bride’s face. “And may the Gods bless you.”

Sansa flinches at this. “It’s a good thing you didn’t insist on a Viking wedding. I do not want blood flicked onto my face.” She whispers lowly to him.

Putting some hurt into his voice, Ivar turns to her and whispers back. “Not even for me?”

The priestess then turns to Ubbe just as Sansa’s head raises to look him in the eye. Flicking blood at Ubbe also, she says. “And give you children.”

“If you really wanted to, I’d do it for you.” She says sincerely.

Ivar smiles down at his kind wife and presses his nose to hers. “It doesn’t matter to me how we did it. As long as we’re married and you can’t get away from me, I have no complaints”

“Excuse me?” She rears back and whisper shouts. “ _I_ can’t get away from _you?_ Remind me, which one of us nearly left the other behind last time.”

Ivar can’t help but laugh at his wife. “You have a point.”

Luckily, they are too far away from the ceremony for anyone to notice their lack of attention on the actual proceedings.

“And may they keep the wolf from the door.” The priestess ends.

Sansa almost looks offended by this. Of course his wolf-queen would, her House having a direwolf for a sigil and all.

Ubbe pulls his smiling wife to him and they kiss. Everyone cheers while Sansa claps politely at his side.

“And now, the bridal race!” The priestess yells. Immediately at the end of her statement. Hvitserk runs past the couple, pushing Ubbe behind him and gets started on the obstacle course set up by the back.

Sansa sits straighter, intrigued, and it is Ivar’s turn to rest his head on her shoulder.

Hvitserk was in the lead, but after they crash through a small shield wall they are neck and neck. Two men hand them horns of ale that they chug quickly before continuing the race. Ubbe and Hvitserk jump over small hurdles and duck under branches being swung at them by guests.

Hvitserk pulls Ubbe down as they round a training post and Ubbe retaliates by grabbing his ankle to trip him then pushing him down as he passes. That is enough to give Ubbe a great lead and he collapses at the finish line, Hvitserk not too far behind. Ubbe pats Hvitserk on the shoulder before getting up to join his new wife on the way back to his house where they will have their feast.

Sansa gets up to follow, and Ivar crawls along with them, leaving Hvitserk still panting on the dirt.

When they get to Ubbe’s house, they are all seated at a long and sturdy table. Ubbe sits at the head with Margrethe at the opposite end, Sigurd to Ubbe’s left. Ivar and Sansa sit across each other at the middle of the table, and the other guests who Sansa is not acquainted with sit around them, filling up the space.

Hvitserk, as loser of the race, serves the refreshments for everyone at the table.

The looks that Hvitserk shares with Margrethe bother Sansa, unaccustomed and disapproving of infidelity.

_But is it infidelity if it’s agreed?_

Sansa doesn’t know, nor does she want to know.

Ivar asks his brother for a refill of water. Sigurd spills his behind him and asks for one as well.

Ubbe comments at the head of the table. “Who knew that among my three brothers I would be beaten to marriage, by Ivar no less?”

The table erupts in laughter, but Sansa doesn’t like this line of discussion and stays coldly quiet. Ivar laughs along with them, but Sansa knows reminders of his condition and how he is different from his brothers because of it still hurt him.

She is about to relax back into the meal when Sigurd throws his two cents in as well. “Ivar, the _Boneless,_ first to take a wife, but last to take a woman to bed!”

The table roars in laughter, but Ivar doesn’t laugh along this time. He looks genuinely hurt and angry, and that enrages the normally cool Sansa. Ivar sees her growing anger and is touched enough to forget his.

“Well, the best things do take the longest times.” Sansa says, sipping from her cup. The table goes silent. “And I do mean the _longest._ ” Her tone drips with suggestion. Ivar hides his smile behind his cup at his wife’s daring. The table is jaws-on-the-floor shocked. They haven’t actually heard her speak that much before.

“If you’ve been treating it like a race, dear Sigurd, it’s no wonder you haven’t found yourself a wife yet.” She finishes.

There are two beats of silence before the entire table explodes in raucous hysterics and a glance at Sigurd shows Sansa how he blushes a violent red to the roots of his odd hairstyle, his ears are not exempt. Sansa imagines quite a bit of heat emanating from his face.

_He reminds me of the Dornish peppers Arya likes so much._

Ivar takes her hand across the table and gives it a grateful squeeze. He doesn’t say it, but she hears it all the same.

_I love you. Thank you._

_ NEXT DAY-FLOKI’S HOUSE _

Ivar barely manages to crawl out of bed. Sansa was feeling particularly amorous last night, after Ubbe’s wedding feast.

Ivar doesn’t have the words to describe the gratefulness he feels for Sansa. No one has ever stood up for him like that, no one but his mother, but even then, it isn’t the same. He would sometimes feel ashamed when his mother coddled him too much. He appreciated the affection, but as a growing boy, she’s still treat him as a babe.

Sansa defended him to his brothers without making him feel embarrassed or different from everyone else. When they get back to his house, they do not care to be particularly quiet in their ardent lovemaking.

In fact, he suspects Sansa was being particularly loud for a reason. She isn’t usually so eloquent in bed.

He kisses his hellcat of a wife goodbye before he makes his way to Floki’s house. Last time he spoke to Floki at the feast, he told Ivar to go to his house the day before they leave for a surprise. He said that the idea came to him in a dream.

Hoping he isn’t about to be sacrificed, he arrives at Floki’s. The man meets him at the door and tells him to remove his leg braces. Ivar does as he says, and they are off. Floki insists on carrying him even though Ivar insisted he could crawl.

It reminds him of Ragnar and the way he carried him all the way to White Harbor when they arrived in Westeros. Trying to lighten his own mood, Ivar lightly slaps the top of Floki’s bald head twice. “Come on, donkey.”

Floki smiles. “Almost there.”

Through the early morning fog, Ivar sees a horse wearing a strange yoke and abnormally long reins. A few steps further and Ivar can see the outline of it now.

Two big and sturdy wooden wheels on either side surrounding an open-backed carriage. Protruding from the front are two solid wooden beams.

“What is it?” Ivar asks in amazement.

“It’s your wings.” Floki replies setting him down.

Ivar crawls toward it to inspect it. Too many good things have happened to him in succession, something must be wrong. Ivar is never this lucky, not when he was born, not when he was a child, and not now.

“Is it really for me?” Ivar turns to Floki to ask.

Floki nods excitedly and Ivar can’t help but laugh in joy. Floki joins him. “I call it a chariot, with a few special touches.”

Ivar approaches the back of it and sees what he means. There is a leather seat for him to straddle along with some leathered padding in the front. It looks like it was built for his height perfectly.

“Thank you, Floki, for this and for everything else.”

Floki ruffles his unbound hair. “Would you like to test it out?”

Ivar goes a few rounds, learning the turns and testing different manoeuvres with the horse. Floki cheers him on from the side, and even hops on at some point as they fly through the wind. It is all the speed of riding on a horse without the fear of breaking a bone every time he mounts and dismounts.

When they tire from their testing, they take a small break where they started and strike up a conversation.

“So... the child?” Ivar asks.

Floki sighs and shrugs his shoulders. “Tanaruz. We found her in Algeciras, took her, rather. Helga insisted we bring her along, and so we did. She’s not eating. She doesn’t speak. She seems more afraid of Helga than anyone else here, and I don’t know why.”

Ivar leans back on a tree stump. “I have to warn you, Sansa is very likely to try and have her returned to her homeland. She relates too well to your adopted child’s circumstances.”

Floki drops his head, and answers. “That would probably break my dear Helga’s heart, but it’s for the best. Just tell me what I have to do.”

They sit a few more minutes in silence before Floki gets up and sits beside him. “So... the wife?” he asks as casually as he can manage.

Ivar smirks and lies down fully on the ground. “The best thing that has ever happened to me. We were so lucky to wash up on her shores. Part of me thinks that all the men that died on the way must have been some sacrifice the to the Gods for me. So that I could meet her.”

Ivar doesn’t know it, but his thoughts are completely correct.

Floki rolls his eyes at him, but he smiles at Ivar’s good fortune. Something always told him that Ivar was singled out by the Gods, not only because of his condition or his father’s legacy, but because Ivar was Ivar.

Feeling rested enough, Ivar and Floki climb onto the chariot and ride it back to Floki’s house. Ivar picks up his leg braces and decides to ride back to Kattegat on the chariot rather than walk.

He hugs Floki goodbye and leaves.

_ NIGHT BEFORE DEPARTURE-KATTEGAT _

Sansa wanders around the deserted streets of Kattegat with her guards behind her. Everyone is busy watching the human sacrifice they are making by the docks so that the blessings reach the ships.

Kattegat at night is eerily silent. The winds don’t make any noise, and the air feels heavy. Overhead, Sansa sees bright lights shoot across the sky.

_Perhaps that will be blessing enough._

Immediately after it passes, the chanting grows louder.

_I guess not_

Ivar had tried to convince her to go, but in this she was obstinate. He accepted it after a while. And while he may have grumbled about it on his way out the door, she could feel him smile into the kiss she granted him in thanks.

Movement in one of the houses catches her eye. She doesn’t try to investigate until she notices the obnoxiously long braided hair and impressive height on the man.

_Bjorn_

Deciding to keep an eye on him for Torvi’s sake, she follows behind the two people silently. Sansa can see the bedroom eyes they make at each other from where she stands. As they are about to enter an empty homestead, Sansa decides to intervene for the sake of Torvi and her children.

“Lord Bjorn?!” She calls out. The couple freezes in the doorway. Sansa decides to act oblivious. “I would have thought you would be at the sacrifice. Ivar has told me how important it is for the leader of such an army to witness it, which is why I presume he needed to be there.”

_Appeal to the ego and challenge it._

“Of course.” Bjorn answers. “That is why _I_ need to be there.”

Bjorn immediately heads back to the ritual.

_Too easy._

When he steps away, Sansa can see that it is Astrid who was with him. Astrid, who is Lagertha’s lover and favourite.

_This is a very strange family_

“Astrid? Oh, I see.” Sansa lets her squirm a little. “It was very considerate of you to collect Bjorn to witness his mother preside over the sacrifice. I won’t keep you any longer. Please, head back.”

When Astrid walks away, Sansa keeps her eye on her and escorts her to the edges of the ritual. Her work done; Sansa turns to leave in search of some more of that iron-tasting chewy steak.

_ DAY OF DEPARTURE-DOCKS OF KATTEGAT _

Ivar and his brothers are assembled at the docks. Bjorn paces in front of them looking peculiarly tense. They hadn’t finished their discussion about who should lead the great army when they spoke last, but Ivar knows his brothers support Bjorn over him.

He feels disappointed but not surprised. Few things can surprise Ivar nowadays, most of them good rather than bad.

Though Bjorn does have the superior battle experience and prowess among all of them, Ivar knows it is he himself who has the best head for strategy and tactics. He knew it wasn’t likely that he’d be allowed to lead, but he thought he may as well try.

“Brothers, this is my decision.” Oh, Bjorn’s finally starting. “We refuse to share power with any of the other Kings and Earls, whoever they are, or however powerful they are.”

He stops his pacing. “Least of all, my brothers, King Harald Finehair and his brother, for they are dedicated to our overthrow. Is that understood?”

They all nod at him complacently. Bjorn continues. “We are all equally Ragnar's sons, but we are not equal in battle. So, I will take the lead. I will establish the battle plans, and I will give the orders. Do you understand that?”

Ivar can’t repress the eyeroll he gives at that. Bjorn is in a very aggressive and agitated mood today, feeling the need to impress his superiority and masculinity to his brothers.

His eyeroll does not go unnoticed and Bjorn marches toward where he is leaning against a wooden post. “You don't agree, Ivar?”

Ivar offers his hands up in a pacifying gesture, but he can’t help the impish smile on his face. “I didn't say anything.”

Bjorn is basically breathing his air now. Ivar doesn’t want anyone but his wife this close to his lips, certainly not his older brother. “You don't have to.”

Thankfully, Bjorn leans back out of his face and crosses his arms. “Your age makes you believe  
you know more than you do. But what do you know? What have you done? What battles have you won?”

He turns again to address all of them instead of just Ivar. “and what battles have you lost? For it is in failure, my brothers, that is where we learn the most.”

Ivar couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He raises both eyebrows up and asks incredulously. “Really?”

Bjorn does not take this kindly. Ivar can basically smell the testosterone flying off of him. “You don't want to listen, that is your choice, but I am the leader of this great army.”

Bjorn beats on his chest as he shouts. “Me! And you will obey me! And if you do so, my brothers, revenge for our father will be ours.”

Taking that as their dismissal, Ivar and his brothers leave Bjorn to his pacing.

When he gets back to his house, Sansa is just about to make her way outside of the house. She’s been sleeping until late now that they’re here. She must enjoy not having to run an entire kingdom. Ivar doesn’t begrudge her the rest.

Ivar sits at the foot of the bed and removes his leg braces. Sansa watches this curiously. Strange he hasn’t greeted her or anything, just headed straight for the bed.

He’s being oddly brusque with his leg braces. He’s usually much more careful with them given how much he loves them. Sansa decides to delay her excursions until she can get to the bottom of her husband’s strange mood.

When he manages to get both off, undamaged thankfully, he flops backwards onto the bed and smothers a yell with a pillow.

Sansa closes the door and sits by his head. “So I take it your meeting did not go well?”

Ivar speaks into the pillow. Sansa doesn’t understand a word. “I don’t speak smother, dear.”

Ivar tosses the pillow off his face and spits out the words quickly. “Just about as well as you’d expect. Bjorn’s been made head of the Great Army, which I was expecting, but not having any of my brothers’ support hurt a little, I do admit.”

Sansa sighs, she had expected Bjorn to be placed in charge. He did have the most battle experience and the needed love of the people to keep everyone in line. She places Ivar’s head in her lap and starts braiding Ivar’s hair back. “I know it isn’t ideal, but you’ll just have to assert your influence in other ways.”

Ivar grumbles in response and continues complaining. “He spent most of our time lecturing us and posturing. It was completely ridiculous! He was so angry and tense. We hadn’t even done or said anything yet. Sure, I admit I may have needled him some more, but it didn’t take much.”

Sansa hums contemplatively. “I may have something to do with that.”

Ivar grasps her hands to keep them from braiding his hair and brings them to his face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I may have put him in a bad mood.” She can see that Ivar still doesn’t understand and might actually start to worry so she comes straight out with it. “Last night, during the sacrifice,”

“Which you didn’t attend.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Which I did not attend. I saw Bjorn and Astrid about to enter an empty house. They were acting quite amorous already and I’d noticed the looks they’d shared at the feast. I only interfered for Torvi and the children, and I managed to convince him to go back to the feast by implying it would make you look like a more likely candidate as leader if he wasn’t around.”

Ivar’s mouth is open in shock, so Sansa does him a favour and closes it before a fly lands in it. “Anyway, that got him to leave and I acted a fool to Astrid to make sure she didn’t attack me or anything for getting in the way of her indiscretions.”

Ivar takes her hands and places an obnoxious kiss on them. “My brilliant meddlesome wife, I may not have appreciated the shit he gave us this morning, but knowing that you got in the way of one of his affairs is hilarious.”

Sansa uses on of the hands he hold to pinch his nose in retaliation for calling her meddlesome. “I don’t like the idea of infidelity. Torvi and her children don’t deserve it.”

Ivar can see where her train of thought is going and he doesn’t like it. Removing her hands from his face, he sits up and twists to face her. “You know you don’t have to worry about that, don’t you?”

Sansa turns her head away and smiles nervously. “Of course, Ivar.”

_She’s lying._

Ivar turns to face her fully and grasps her chin with his left hand to pull their foreheads together. “You don’t.” Pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ve only ever felt this way about you. I’ve only ever seen you. No one else can compete.”

Sansa sighs and let’s her head fall to the hollow of his throat while she wraps her arms around his middle. “I know. It’s just hard, seeing all of the strange arrangements here with your brothers and their “wives” or lovers”

Ivar holds her to him tightly. “Well, in this, I am glad to differ from my brothers.”

This earns a laugh from his wife. She mumbles into his chest. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Only ever you.”

_ WINTER’S DAUGHTER _

Arya was excited to be sailing back to England, now she’s just frustrated that her boat is slower than all the others.

Non-crew members like Sansa, Ivar and Wylla retreat into their rooms to avoid Arya’s wrath.

_It’s a good thing I didn’t leave her in charge. It’s a wonder her crew doesn’t jump ship._

In between Ivar and Sansa sits a chess board. She’d picked up the game very quickly. Unlike cyvasse, chess pushes them into confrontations and trap setting is done much more quickly and even more subtly. It’s a faster test of strategy, but still they exercise plenty of patience in the way they play.

While they play, they discuss strategy for the upcoming battles, specifically with Northumbria.

“They’ll be expecting you.” Sansa says, moving one of her bishops by the center of the board. She leans her head on her left arm that she rests on her armchair.

“Not with these kinds of numbers.” Ivar responds, moving his knight piece to cover his queen still at starting position.

Sansa nods as she considers her next move. “Still, it would be best to preserve as many fighters as you can by choosing a tactical approach. The kingdoms of Wessex and Mercia will have much larger armies.” Her hand hovers over a rook before deciding to adjust her king instead to the left in a more guarded position. “Show your enemy only the strength it takes to win.”

Ivar interlaces the fingers of both hands as he leans his elbows on the table to better examine the board. He may have successfully taken Sansa’s knights, but she’s taken both of his bishops in return. He decides to move his leftmost rook one space to the right. “It isn’t exactly my decision, is it?”

Ivar is still slightly bitter about that decision. Sansa doesn’t scoff, but her words are slightly caustic. “Welcome to being a woman, queens excluded of course.”

Ivar sighs. “That’s fair.” Sansa moves her rook directly across his. He takes it. She takes his rook in turn. She continues speaking. “You have to make him think it was his idea. Appeal to his ego and challenge his feelings of masculinity, worked well enough last time.”

Ivar moves his queen to the leftmost block that was occupied by his rook. Sansa moves a pawn forward swiftly in response. “Try sending out a troupe on foot. Control the information of your ships arriving.”

Ivar adjusts his queen two squares diagonally to the right. “I’ll suggest it to Bjorn, but I doubt he’d listen.”

Sansa moves her rook forward 3 spaces. Ivar moves his last rook to cover his king piece’s open left side. Sansa sighs and leans back. After a few beats of silence, she pushes a pawn forward by a space.

They pass the rest of the night in silence, simply moving wooden pieces about a board in comfortable silence.

They find that in life and in the game, they find themselves the same.

_Well-matched._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read You Like I Wrote You cover by Sansa Snark coming soon


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dip in the dark side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heed the new warnings and new tags

_ NORTHUMBRIA _

Bjorn does not heed the advice.

When their great army takes the field, King Aelle and his men are ready for them with mounted knights and foot soldiers, banners flying in the wind.

Bjorn decides to make something of a spectacle of it by having majority of their army hang back and hide until right before the first charge. When the Great Army finally reveals itself in its entirety, some Northumbrian foot soldiers break formation and retreat, or at least attempt to. They are shot down mercilessly by hidden archers in the nearby forests.

Bjorn at least listened to Ivar about that.

The sons of Ragnar make their way to the front lines carrying their weapons of choice. Bjorn, his sword and axe, Hvitserk with a shield and sword, Ubbe, axe and shield, and Sigurd with his two axes. Ivar rides in from the left hill on his chariot wielding only Ice Shard.

Sansa watches all of this from a farther vantage point with a pair of binoculars that Arya has lent her. Another reason Ivar insisted on the perimeter guard is because Sansa was obstinate about watching the battle.

_“I am not waiting in a tent for news of whether you live or die, Ivar.”_

When he suggested she wait on the boat instead as that would actually make for an easier retreat, she fixed him with a heated look.

With Arya promising to watch out for her and the presence of both of her guards along with the procurement of a horse for her should she need to ride away in all haste, Ivar begrudgingly agrees. He really didn’t have a choice actually.

With the entire Great Army arrived, they charge forward with a battle cry.

“RAGNAR!”

Maybe he can actually hear it from where he sits in Valhalla.

↡

Sansa watches as the entire Northumbrian army gets swallowed by the Great Army like a tidal wave might sink a sailing boat. Just from that, she can tell that it would be impossible for any Northumbrians to survive let alone win this battle.

Sansa was expecting a much larger army. She expected tens of thousands of men gathered to protect an entire kingdom, but the Northumbrians make up about one-thousand to maybe two-thousand maximum.

It is an easy defeat and the Great Army quickly quits the field after a single wave. Sansa sees her husband’s chariot clearly. Ivar’s fine and he wields Ice Shard with skill, if she does say so herself. There is something viscerally attractive about the image.

Arya sees the expression of her sister’s face and makes retching noises. “Eugh, Sans, keep it in your skirts.”

“I will not.”

Arya tries to throw herself off the hill. She does not ever want to hear about her sister like this. Ever.

Ivar and his brothers linger on the field. They are searching for someone. It takes a few minutes, but they pull a large body from underneath the pile. It wears much more opulent armour that any of the other men.

_The king._

↡

Bjorn lifts him by his breast plates and gives him a shake. King Aelle gasps awake. “Did you honestly believe we’d let you die so easily?” Bjorn asks.

Without sparing him another glance, Bjorn tosses him on the ground. King Aelle is still too dazed to try and crawl away, not a lot of good it would do either way. Hvitserk and Sigurd begin tying him by the legs to the back of Ivar’s chariot.

The rest of the army has gone back to the camps. Only a few choice people are left in the field of massacre. Floki looks both excited and furious. He has that insane look in his eyes once again.

Before the brothers can decide which direction to go for the blood eagle ceremony, Ivar’s horse lurches forward, nearly causing him to fall off. He brings the tied-up King Aelle with him.

Bjorn and Ubbe run after him and Ivar gets the horse to slow to a gentle trot. Bjorn catches up and wrenches the reins from him. “Where are you taking him?!”

Ivar has his left arm up in surrender as he sheathes Ice Shard carefully with the other. “I didn’t make it go anywhere. It has a mind of its own.”

Bjorn looks ready to explode at him again, the frenzy of battle still running high in his blood, when Floki steps in front of the braying horse and interrupts him. “Wait, let it go.” He instructs Bjorn.

“Something strange is happening.” Floki continues, gesturing at the horse’s eyes which are an opaque and milky white. “Let it go. The Gods are at work here.”

When everyone sees the animal’s blank white gaze, Bjorn lets go and it continues on at a much slower pace to allow everyone to jog along beside Ivar.

They go over hills and into a dense forest closer to the campsite. The horse stops abruptly and the white drains from its eyes completely. King Aelle has been stripped of his armour and other adornments by the journey that he is dragged through.

Ubbe unties the king and Floki and Bjorn grab the man by the shoulders. Aelle is pale and his nose runs with blood. He can barely muster the strength to open his eyes when Bjorn demands, “Show us where our father died.”

Aelle stares at them blankly, still disoriented. Bjorn backhands him and yells in his face. “Show us!”

Aelle finally nods in response. His eyes wide with fear as his situation dawns on him. He has heard of the brutal ritualistic execution that these savages practice. _The blood eagle._ He only prays his fate is not the same.

Aelle stumbles to two camouflages boards of wood. Bjorn hands the shaking king to Sigurd who holds him still with an axe to the neck. They make quick work removing the dirt and fallen leaves that covers the board.

“This,” Bjorn urns back to Aelle who quivers in fear. “This is the place?”

Aelle nods shakily looking ready to piss himself.

Bjorn signals their men to pull the two boards apart. It opens to reveal a deep pit filled with snake bones and underneath all of that, the skeleton of a man.

_Ragnar._

Seeing it causes the wind to be knocked out of Ivar’s lungs. This is what he had left his father to by staying in the North. This was his fate, to die in a pit of vipers, his body left to rot with the things that killed him. Though they can’t ascertain the identity of the skeleton, Ivar feels it in his guts, and he knows his brothers feel it too.

A voice is carried to them by the wind, sounding like Ragnar’s whisper.

_Oh, how the little piggies will grunt when they hear how the old boar suffered._

Ivar’s grief and disbelief is snuffed out, replaced instead by an inferno of anger and hatred for the man that shakes in front of them.

In a last bid for his life, King Aelle begs. “How much gold and silver do you want to spare my life?”

Ivar shakes his head at the man’s pathetic attempts. Nothing can save him now.

“Name your price.” He continues to beg. “Anything. Anything!” He cries.

Perhaps wiser and less wrathful men might have agreed to spare him, but not Ragnar’s sons, not when they have the man responsible for their father’s death in their hands.

Ivar turns to the man, a crazed look in his eyes. “You are mistaken. My father was worth far more than gold and silver.”

Ivar grabs the sobbing man by the neck. “That is not the price you must pay.”

Floki, who loved Ragnar dearly also, grabs Aelle by the hair and pushes him down onto his knees so he can look down on the man as he says it. “I’ve been told your God is a carpenter.” Smiling dementedly, Floki continues cheerily. “Guess what. So am I!”

They let Aelle stew in his fear until nightfall. In that time, Floki fells a nearby tree and they set up two sturdy posts by the pit their father died in.

The make Aelle kneel, his upper half pinned against a fallen tree trunk as they hammer nails into his hands to keep him from squirming.

His cries fill the woods as Floki, finished with his left arm, hammers down his right hand as well.

Ivar and his brothers stand behind Bjorn, they are surrounded by the others carrying torches.

Bjorn rips Aelle’s shirt in half from behind and his white unmarred flesh is exposed to the cold night air.

_I’ve never met anyone softer. Even my wife has scars. This man has never known suffering._

_But he’ll be well-introduced before the night is out._

Bjorn picks up a red-hot knife that has been resting on the fire for a while now. Grabbing Aelle by the shoulder with his left hand, he plunges the knife quickly between the man’s shoulderblades.

Aelle lets out a bloodcurdling cry. No one will have pity on him here.

Bjorn drags the knife down Aelle’s back, cutting deep into him and sometimes nicking bone. Finished with the initial cut, he stabs the bloodied knife into Aelle’s right hand and once again pinning him to the tree.

Aelle continues to scream through it all, his face rapidly paling.

Bjorn uses both hands to rip the man’s back further. The muscle gives after much effort, Ivar and his brothers can see the bone white of his ribs and spine among the blood and tissue that still clings to his back from where they stand.

Ubbe hands Bjorn one of his axes. Bjorn takes hold of Aelle’s shoulder once again, raises the axe overhead and brings it straight back down to cut through some of Aelle’s ribs.

Aelle is no longer screaming, instead he gurgles and chokes on his own blood as Bjorn hacks into his back like a butcher.

Every swing of the axe cuts through bone and splatters Ivar and his brothers in the king’s blood. Part of Ivar wants to watch the life drain from Aelle’s eyes as he dies slowly and painfully, but something holds him back.

Two axe swings later and Aelle is tellingly silent. With him dead, the rest of the ritual is not as satisfying for Ivar. They rips his lungs out and arrange his dead body on the posts over Ragnar’s grave. Slowly, people trickle off back to camp.

Floki and Ragnar’s sons are the last to leave. They wait until dawn arrives and with it a voice.

_“I shall wait for my sons to join me. And when they do, I will bask in their tales of triumph.”_

_The last words of Ragnar Lothbrok._

_ CAMP _

Sansa can’t sleep. She saw Ivar and his brothers dragging the defeated king from the battlefield and leaves them to their business.

_There’s no justice in the world. **Not unless we make it.**_

She heads back to camp where their tent is set up at the center to offer the most protection. Sansa readies for bed hoping that Ivar will be back before she goes to sleep, just to make sure he really is fine.

It must be the hour of the wolf as Sansa tosses and turns, unable to fall asleep, when she hears it loud and clear.

A scream of pain that goes on forever. All night it goes, until as abruptly as it started, it stops.

Suddenly she isn’t in a tent, she’s back in an unfamiliar Winterfell. She’s face to face with the wall of Robb’s room. The cot she shares with Ivar turns into a cold pallet of furs. Her back stings like the scars she knows are there rip themselves open and start bleeding anew. Sansa tries to close her eyes. She can’t move. It’s like every limb is locked in place.

She doesn’t know how long she stays frozen in place on her side of the cot. When she hears the door creak open accompanied by a rush of cold air, she shuts her eyes as tightly as she can and curls her body as close to her middle as possible.

She keeps her eyes closed as a hand comes down on her shoulder.

“Sansa.” She can hear _his_ voice, the danger in it, the unspoken threat in every whisper of her name, the pain as a cold knife makes her way down her spine.

_He’s dead. He’s dead. All memory of him has disappeared._

_“I’m a part of you now.”_

**_Except for the ones in my head._ **

As if waking from a dream, Sansa bursts into motion and twists around. Terrified of seeing _his_ face covered in the blood of Winterfell’s people, his hands still warm and dripping with it.

In the dark, all she can see are bright blue eyes and a wide smile. The hand on her shoulder, she notices now, is slick and cold.

“No!”

Sansa screams, bolting out of the bed. She’s surprised to feel soft grass under her feet rather than the stone floors of Winterfell.

Ivar is startled by his wife’s reaction. “Sansa...” He says gently, approaching her like a startled animal that may run any minute. “It’s me, love. It’s your Ivar.”

The combination of his words and the feeling of grass underneath her feet manages to snap her out of her trance. “Oh, Gods!” Sansa cries, falling to her knees in exhaustion and relief. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She sobs.

Ivar takes her into his arms and comforts her. “It’s alright. It’s alright.”

Putting her face in the hollow of his neck so that he can reach around her and stroke her hair, he continues. “I’m here now. I’m here, Sansa.”

The couple stays that way until brighter light streams into the tent. Sansa has since stopped crying, but still Ivar comforts her. “It’s alright, Sansa. I’m here.” He says, pressing his lips to her head.

When she looks down at his hands, she sees that they are free of blood and relaxes. “I’m sorry, Ivar. I-I just thought that-“

Pressing his lips to her forehead now, Ivar interrupts. “You don’t ever have to apologize, love. Never.”

Sansa spots a fleck of blood on his chin from where she’s pressed up against him. Thinking it’s fine, she leans up to give her husband a kiss and freezes at the site of him.

His face is drenched in dry blood. Leaning away from him now, she can see that his clothes, though they may hide it well are also covered in dried blood.

Sansa is horrified to see it. Every time she blinks, the image of her husband is replaced with _him_. They superimpose each other and when he reaches out a hand to comfort her, his hands are not as clean as she thought. “Don’t touch me!” She screams.

“Get away from me!” The very sight of him smiling at her but covered in blood makes her want to empty her stomach. This is not the playful and caring Ivar she knows.

“Sansa, it’s me. It’s your husband, Ivar.” He tries appeasingly.

“I know who you are, Ivar.” She snaps. “And I am telling you not to touch me.” Sansa stands and grabs her day clothes to hurriedly put them on.

Ivar slowly approaches her asking, “Sansa, what’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer, just leaves him in the tent once she’s put them on. Who cares if anyone should see her, she needs to get away from him.

Ivar doesn’t want to admit it, but watching her walk away from him-

 _“Abandon him. **Reject him. Just like everyone else.** ” _An insidious voice in his head screams.

Watching it breaks his heart and brings tears to his eyes; of desolation or frustration, he doesn’t know.

That is the last Ivar sees of his wife for a while.

_ VIKING CAMP NEAR REPTON, MERCIA _

Ivar hasn’t seen hide nor hair of his wife for the past week as they’ve travelled further south. He only knows she’s still around because the armour of her guards is unmistakably loud, even in the noise of a Viking camp.

_If she doesn’t want to see me, then so be it._

Ivar stops looking for her (or at least he tries). Sansa will always be his love, his wife. He can’t help himself when it comes to her. He’ll surrender everything at her feet if he must, whether she would do the same or not.

She would, wouldn’t she?

Today, he sits with his brothers. His back to the camp so that he can’t be tempted to search for her in the throng of people.

“It seems to me that the Saxons are as timid as frightened women.” Ivar spits out scathingly. “Their hearts are faint. I don't think they can truly trouble us.” He continues.

Ivar needs to let his anger out somehow. Looks like today, it will have to be his brothers that deal with his biting words and foul mood.

“You don't know enough, Ivar.” Bjorn starts. “You haven't seen enough. These are brave men. I've fought against them, you haven't.”

Of course, Bjorn has to lord over them with his years of experience. It wouldn’t be Bjorn without at least one reminder of his superiority.

_Experience isn’t everything._

Ivar rolls his eyes in response. “I can only see what my eyes tell me, Bjorn. And what I see is frightened people running before us.”

Before anyone can interrupt him, he resumes. “I see their spineless God running away from our gods. I see our men—dead in the field of battle when they didn’t have to be.”

Bjorn scoffs at his words. “If I’d listened to you, Ivar, our men wouldn’t respect me. Your way is not the Viking way.”

Ivar bites back. “The irony. Of all of us here, I was the only one raised by an actual Viking.”

Floki who sits behind him thumps his back in thanks for the praise.

Ubbe tries to de-escalate, as he always does. “For once, why don't you just listen to an older, wiser brother?”

Ubbe faces him now and speaks more softly. “These people who are running away, they're not warriors.” He pauses to take a drink from his horn. “They are not the ones who will stay and fight to defend this kingdom.”

“And protect their honor.” Sigurd butts in. Can’t he just keep cutting out meat and keep his mouth shut. “For what is a warrior without his honor?” The very sound of his voice infuriates Ivar.

“I don't know.” Ivar replies mockingly. “You tell me, brother.”

When it doesn’t get the reaction he wants, Ivar presses. “And, tell me again, how many battles have you fought?”

Sigurd replies by throwing some innards on the ground. “Same as you, brother. Except I don't ride around in a comfortable bloody chariot!”

Ivar smirks and crosses his arms. “As always, people just like me better than you, Sigurd.”

Sigurd looks like he’s about to try and stab him with the carving knife. “ _Do it.”_ Ivar says with his eyes, ready to unsheathe Ice Shard.

Bjorn interrupts the would be fight. “What you have to learn, Ivar, is that if you break up this brotherhood, we shall not succeed.”

Ivar turns to look at him, but the expression on Hvitserk’s face makes him want to bash it in with his fist.

Not knowing about the violent thought in Ivar’s head, Bjorn continues his speech. “We have many challenges ahead of us. So, if you want to keep arguing and whining like a little girl, then I suggest you leave. We don't need you.”

Ivar can admit that the statement stings, but hurt only makes his chronic bad mood worse. “Oh, but you do need me. Why do you think Father chose me to come with him to England?”

He look at each of his brothers. He feels Floki sit straighter to pay attention to what comes out of Ivar’s mouth next as well. “He had a reason for doing so. He told me I was the one who would act for him,”

Ivar’s sure his brother don’t believe him, but he continues anyway. “who would make sure he was revenged.”

Bjorn picks up a severed deer’s head and places it in front of his face mockingly. “If that's what you want to think, then think it.”

Fully infuriated now, Ivar stands to leave, but not before he gets the last word in. “I understand it  
must be hard for you to accept that the true heir to the great Ragnar Lothbrok should turn out to be  
a cripple and a reject.”

Before he can walk away completely, Ivar hears Floki turn to address his brothers. “So this is what the grunting of the little pigs was all about!”

Ivar remembers his father’s last words to him in person

_“Never, Ivar, never. You and your brothers are not meant to be at odds...That is not the fate I had meant for you.”_

Reluctantly, Ivar walks back to where he left his brothers and retakes his seat. He huffs into his stool and puts his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry.”

Ivar can’t bear to look them in the eyes right now, not when he’s asking for their forgiveness like a beggar. “I admit, I haven’t been in the best of spirits lately.”

“That’s an understatement.” He hears Hvitserk scoff.

Ivar chooses to ignore the remark. “I’m not sure what Ragnar would have wanted, but I am sure about what he didn’t want.”

He looks up at his older brothers now. “He didn’t want us to fight amongst ourselves, not when we have so many enemies.”

Ubbe claps him on the back like the good older brother he is. “This is good, Ivar.”

Ivar isn’t finished though. “But I still insist we work on a new plan of attack when we take Wessex and Mercia.”

Bjorn rolls his eyes and looks ready to leave, so Ivar tries to stop him. “No, wait, listen. We have the advantage right now; we need to keep it. We should send scouts out. Control what information they receive so that we can control the flow of battle.”

Bjorn decides to hear him out, and for that Ivar is grateful. “They have mounted knights, no? We don’t. If we choose our battlefield correctly, their advantage becomes a disadvantage. We have the numbers to stretch the battlefield out to a larger area.”

Ivar gestures with his arms. “We use the terrain, and we bait them to us.” Finished with his pitch, he looks to Bjorn. “What do you say?”

Bjorn thinks of it a few more moments, then shrugs his shoulders and gets up to approach Ivar. “If it works, then it is a good plan.”

Bending down to be eye-level with Ivar’s seated form, Bjorn slaps his hand onto Ivar’s shoulder. “If it doesn’t, then it is a bad plan.”

He gets back up and goes back to his seat. “So, what did you have in mind exactly, brother?”

They spend the rest of the day settling on a strategy for their next battle.

_ AETHELWULF’S CAMP _

When Prince Aethelwulf arrives, a cheer goes up in the camp. There must be at least 5,000 soliders assembled, and among that number some anointed knights. They may match this Great Heathen Army in numbers yet.

Tents stretch across a large field, but Aethelwulf and his party head straight for the one in the centre to begin planning.

Aethelwulf summons his captains to discuss a plan of attack and defence. This is their last stand against the Viking army. The small garrison that has been left behind at his father’s villa will do little good if the army falls in the coming battle.

In the command tent, Aethelwulf takes a seat at the head of the table. “What's your estimation  
of their strength? Honestly?” He asks one of their forward scouts.

“Who can tell?” The scout bashfully replies. “Between three or four thousand, maybe less. None of my other scouts have reported back to me. I assume they are all dead at the hands of these savages.”

Seeing Aethelwulf’s displeased expression, but needing to get it out, he continues. “At least that's what it looked like to me.”

The captains around him look at him in doubt. They don’t understand the situation. “We've never seen anything like this before. Not a raiding party, but a great heathen army.”

Aethelwulf stands and surveys the map in front of him, his hand hovers over their marker for the Viking ships. “Where were they headed?” He asks without looking up.

Their scout replies. “They killed King Aelle near York, and they're moving south into the  
Midlands, so far towards Repton according to the smoke and light we can see from their camp.”

Aethelwulf bows his head lower. They have a chance if they can take them by surprise, they have the better numbers and the home advantage. “Is it your belief that they are set upon attacking my father's kingdom?”

He hands the mana cup of water and continues. “That they have gathered together to attack Wessex?”

The scout takes the cup gratefully and takes a sip before answering. “There is no doubt in my mind. These are the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. They want revenge for the death of their father.”

Aethelwulf turns his back on the man to head back towards the table and the maps. “They killed Aelle.” He hears the scout continue. “But they know your father was complicit in his death. So it seems inevitable that they are marching towards Wessex.”

Aethelwulf hums thoughtfully in response.

_If battle it must be, then so be it._

He addresses his captains. “I believe this man. I always thought they would seek revenge against my father.”

He moves their camp’s marker towards Repton on the map, towards the Viking ship markers. “So let's move towards Repton. I think our destiny awaits us there.”

_I will end this once and for all._

_ VIKING CAMP NEAR REPTON, MERCIA _

“Tanaruz? Tanaruz!”

Helga’s cry echoes around the otherwise still and silent camp. She makes her way to Floki’s tent to wake him. “Floki, get up!” Seeing as he won’t wake, she yells again, louder this time. “Floki!”

He jolts awake and grabs for the knife hidden under some furs. He sees it is Helga and groggily asks, “Hmm? What is it?”

Helga, still panicking, replies quickly, halfway out of the tent already. “She's gone! Tanaruz is gone.”

“Maybe it's for the better.” Floki replies, already lying back down.

“What are you talking about?!” She yells, frantically searching among their belongings. “Something frightened her and she's run away.” She shakes her husband so that he can’t return to sleep. “She might be in danger, Floki!”

Hoping he understands the gravity of the situation now, she continues. “Floki, we have to find her! Where is my darling?” She asks, tears in her eyes.

It hurts Floki to see his loyal and loving wife like this, so he pulls her closer in order to try and stop her shaking. “Floki, find her, please.” She cries into his chest.

Unable to deny his wife, Floki gets up and after forcefully tucking her into bed and ordering her to stay there, he goes off in search of Tanaruz.

He searches the camp high and low, seeing no sign of her. However, he does see Harald and his brother walking around in search of someone. Ivar also, probably in search of the wife that eludes him.

He heads to the river by the boats. This is the last place she could be. “Tanaruz?”

He spots her soaked cloak among some branches and thinks the worst, running towards it. It’s ripped up in most places, there are a few strands of hair there. He takes a look around searching for a body, hopefully it hasn’t been washed out to sea.

In the peripheries of his vision, he spies a pair of brown eyes watching him from behind a bush. Floki approaches her slowly. “I'm sorry.”

Knowing she has been spotted, she gets up and goes to Floki hesitantly.

“You hate us.” Floki continues. “I don't know what to do.”

↡

Floki walks back to camp. In his hands, Tanaruz’s ruined cloak. Helga runs up from behind him. “Tanaruz! My baby! My baby!”

Floki stops and turns around to tell Helga the news. “Helga.”

Helga is distraught at the sight of him. Her face a picture of grief.

_Yet another child taken from her._

Helga grabs the torn cloak from Floki’s hands and hold it to her face. She thinks she can still smell her precious Tanaruz. She cries harder into the cloak. “No, Floki, not another.”

Floki lets a few tears escape and holds his shaking wife closer to him. They need a fresh start. Far away from memories of lost daughters and imprisonment.

Once this is over, once they have avenged Ragnar, Floki promises to his wife.

_We’ll leave._

__

_ WINTER’S DAUGHTER _

It is still dusk when Wynafryd sneaks a small, cloaked figure to the Winter’s Daughter. The fog covers their approach to the ship, but they won’t have that cover for long. Wylla meets them above deck, having sent the crew under for a while.

The sisters rush the figure to the warmly lit Captain’s quarters. Once there, they remove her hood to reveal Tanaruz. They usher her closer to the fire. The poor child is still shivering.

Wylla hugs the girl to her. “Aw, the poor thing. Isn’t she just the cutest, Fryd?”

“We are not keeping her, Wylla.” Wynafryd responds already pulling out some maps.

“Of course not! I’m just saying she’s adorable. Geez.” Wylla says, rolling her eyes at her older sister.

Once Tanaruz stops shaking, Wylla brings her over to the map table gently. “Can you point us to where you’re from, sweetie?”

Tanaruz looks up at the strange green-haired woman confused. She shakes her head at Wylla’s expectant face.

Wynafryd watches all this with an observant eye. “Maybe she doesn’t speak the language, Wylla.”

She turns to the child and asks the question in French. “Dirigez-nous vers votre domicile.”

Still, Tanaruz looks confused at the request. Wylla repeats her earlier question but more loudly and slowly.

“CAN YOU,” She pushes her finger towards Tanaruz who recoils.

“POINT US,” Wylla gestures to her and Wynafryd who shakes her head and massages her nose bridge.

“TO WHERE,” She gestures at all the maps on the table, widely swinging her arms over it.

“YOU’RE FROM!” Lastly, she wags her finger from Tanaruz to the maps very quickly.

Tanaruz only looks more terrified of them now. “Wylla, if she doesn’t understand the language, SPEAKING MORE SLOWLY AND LOUDLY ISN’T GOING TO HELP!”

Wylla shrugs. “Oh well, it was worth a shot.”

Looking back towards the map, she closes her eyes and wags one finger over the entire thing in random directions. Stopping abruptly and putting her finger down, she takes a peek at where she’s landed.

_Algeciras._

“Why don’t we try here?”

Wynafryd collapses into the captain’s chair and takes deep breaths to control her temper. “Are you seriously suggesting we bring her to a random country and hope we get it right?”

Wylla crosses her arms. “Well, do you have any better ideas?”

Wynafryd rolls her eyes at her sister. “Obviously.” She mutters under her breath. “Why did I have to bring her along? Why couldn’t I have just left her in White Harbor?”

Wylla rolls her eyes at her sister right back. “Well then, what is it?”

Looking back at her sister, Wynafryd answers. “We keep her hidden on-board for now. Once Bjorn and his crew attempt to sail, we foist her off to them with a bribe to put her back where they found her.”

Wylla purses her lips and looks away. “Fine then.” Looking back to Tanaruz, she holds the girl gently by the arm. “For now, you can stay in my room and we can work on your hair.”

_ VIKING CAMP NEAR REPTON, MERCIA _

Ivar bumps into King Harald as he makes his way out of his tent. Sansa still hasn’t come to see him and he still hasn’t seen her.

Though King Harald has been plenty friendly to them, they can’t forget the fact that his end game is King of all of Norway. They can trust this man, but only to a certain extent and only as long as their visions align.

When Ivar bumps into him, he does it quite literally. He can feel the solid shape of an axe hidden in the man’s cloak. Why he must hide it in a war camp, Ivar can only suspect he means to kill one of their allies by surprise. They exchange greetings and Harald goes on his way, Halfdan suspiciously out of sight.

Ivar decides to follow silently.

Harald stops by a pretty woman. Ellysif-Allisif? Ivar isn’t sure what her name is, he is sure however, that she is Jarl Vik’s wife. Sansa had mentioned before how that was the woman that rejected Harald and started him on his path to becoming King of Norway.

Everything makes sense now. Before Jarl Vik can approach Harald and his wife, Ivar enters and grabs Harald by his axe arm and drags him away without offering any excuses.

“What are you doing?!” Harald rips his arm from Ivar, causing his cloak to shift and reveal the sharpened axe he hides there.

“Keeping you from making a mistake.” Ivar answers calmly, but his fingers twitch toward his side where Ice Shard is sheathed. “Killing Jarl Vik won’t endear you to _his wife_ any.”

“Stay out of it, cripple.” He spits in Ivar’s face. “Not every love story is like the one you and your wife have. Some of them drip in blood and revenge and broken promises.”

Ivar smiles wryly. “Love is much harder to keep than you think, but it isn’t about earning or deserving anything.”

“Stay. Out. Of it.” Harald repeats, brushing past Ivar.

_Can’t say I didn’t try._

Later, Ivar hears a commotion in the camp. Jarl Vik is dead, so is his wife. One at Harald’s hands, the other at his brother’s.

_ BATTLEFIELD-REPTON _

The traps are set. Their men are in position. When Aethelwulf and his men take the field, they only see a fraction of the Great Heathen Army up the hill and at a distance.

Ivar leads them on his chariot, but when Aethelwulf orders a charge, they split and retreat back into the surrounding woods. Aethelwulf and his men give chase, but when they crest the hill there is no sign of them.

A call goes up from behind, Aethelwulf turns and sees the men trying to flank them, lead once again by Ivar on his chariot. As soon as Aethelwulf orders his men to turn around and run after them, they retreat. They are much closer this time so they don’t lose sight of the heathens.

Arrows fly out of the woods straight at them. They take down many foot soldiers before Aethelwulf and his men can form a shield wall. Hearing the end of the barrage, Aethelwulf has a few men go forward and check the forest for any archers. The men he sent come back, reporting no signs of them.

Aethelwulf spies the party they were chasing with the charioteer at the head. They are back on top of the hill.

Aethelwulf mounts his steed again and gives chase. Luckily, only foot soldiers were killed by the arrows shot at them, his mounted soldiers barely touched.

They hear 4 horn blasts before the charioteer and his army turn away and disappear once again into the woods. One of his captains turns around, and just as Aethelwulf suspected, they are being flanked by another party of vikings.

_They have taken control of this battlefield. We need to force them to move._

Thoroughly frustrated, Aethelwulf asks his man where their boats are. “You say they left their ships at Repton?”

Confused at this line of questioning, the man still answers. “Yes, my Lord.”

Aethelwulf looks at the flanking army. The damned charioteer still in front of them, but they aren’t charging.

“In which direction is Repton?”

“Onward that way, my Lord.”

Turning his horse back forward, Aethelwulf yells. “Then that's where we're going. And if we reach Repton first, and destroy their ships, then we shall have the better of this battle!”

Turning to his captains, he orders. “But we must move fast, and keep them behind us!”

He kicks his horse into a gallop and commands the rest of his men as well. “Move!”

↡

Ivar watches them head towards Repton and allows a smirk to show on his face. Floki stands beside him confused. “What are they doing? Where are they going?”

Ivar shakes his head. “To Repton, I imagine.”

Floki looks at Ivar in disbelief. “To the boats? They’re going for our boats.”

Floki runs up to push his fist into Ivar’s head. “You crippled bastard! You were right! You were right! Oh, you bloody mad genius. You were right!”

Ivar laughs.

_All according to plan._

↡

As Aethelwulf and his men ride fast on the road to Repton, arrows start falling from the sky like rain. One misses him by a mere hairsbreadth but kills the captain at his right side.

There are archers shooting at them from a steep hill on their left.

From either side of the woods surrounding them, vikings come pouring out in droves. They meet in front of Aethelwulf.

_This is more than 4,000 men here, surely._

Remembering his family who will surely die if he should fail today, Aethelwulf is filled with resolve to fight to his death and take as many heathens as he can with him.

**_God help us._ **

“Shield wall!” Bjorn calls out right before the Great Army charges.

Aethelwulf commands his remaining men as well. “Charge!”

Vikings and Aethelwulf’s army clash in the middle. The soldiers show their discipline and training, not breaking formation and quickly adjusting to the Viking rush.

They hold their own at an impasse, until Ivar and his men rush up from behind. Ivar rides his chariot through their flanks, cutting down as many of their numbers as he can. Hurtling in from the steep hill, he flies through them, cutting down soldiers with Ice Shard and weakening their defence to the shield wall.

Once their formation is broken, it is all out chaos on the field.

↡

Sansa and Arya watch this from atop the same steep hill, behind a line of archers.

The smell of gore wafts its way up even here and it makes Sansa want to empty her stomach. She can see the leader, Aethelwulf. He is unseated from his horse and he falls into the mud, yet still he fights even with his bare hands.

She keeps track of Ivar, always. Watching over him as he barrels over people and cuts them down in droves. She sees as he is nearly stabbed through by a lucky soldier, luckily Floki is there to guard his back.

_Oh Gods, bring him back to me alive._

Bjorn and Ivar’s other brothers cut their own bloody lines through the battlefield. These Saxons are losing. It is only a matter of time.

Though the carnage brings Sansa no joy, in fact it makes Sansa’s stomach turn quite fiercely, she understands and has experienced war.

_Just retreat._

As if reading her thoughts, Aethelwulf mounts another steed and orders his men to save themselves and retreat. They ride and run through the opening in the front, those left behind are cut down where they try and scramble away.

A loud cheer goes up in the Viking camp, but Sansa knows better than to celebrate too early.

_It’s far from finished._

_ VIKING CAMP, WESSEX _

Ivar returns to his tent filthy and exhausted. He needs to clean up, but all he wants to do is talk to his wife and fall into bed with her. His right arm aches from swinging around Ice Shard, and though the sword is actually quite light and sharp, it still takes effort to swing it through people at the pace he did earlier.

He heads straight for Sansa’s wash basin set up in a corner, not bothering to look around if all he’ll see is his lonely empty tent.

Ivar resolves to find his wife and speak to her just as soon as he is done wiping the grime off of him and maybe changing into a new set of clothes.

He removes his shirt and uses the cleaner side to wipe off his face when the sound of someone clearing their throat comes up behind him. Ivar turns around slowly. He can always tell it’s her.

He discards the fully soiled shirt, but he can’t find the words to start a conversation. Ready to just walk towards her and kiss her senseless like he’s been wanting to the past few days, Sansa’s voice stops him. “I-I’m sorry... about the other night.”

Ivar stops in his tracks and shakes his head. “You don’t have to-“

Sansa hold up a hand to stop him. “Wait. I need to get this out.”

Ivar acquiesces with a nod and lies beside her on the bed. She looks at him questioningly, so he explains. “Well, get in here then. I propose we speak in a more comfortable position”

Sansa shakes her head and a small smile shines on her face at his antics and the memory he brings up. Still, she doesn’t look like she’s about to comply.

Ivar presses. “I’ve missed holding my wife. Can I hold you, Sansa?”

Sansa melts at his words and lies down. Pressing her face onto his chest and just inhaling his scent for a while. Not _him_ , not blood or gore, just Ivar.

It is silent for a while as they simply enjoy holding each other after so long, but Sansa knows that if she doesn’t say it now, she’ll only try to forget it ever happened.

“When I heard the screams that night, I-I... I thought I was back in another place, married to another man—a monster. One that liked to hurt people and I remembered what it was like to be under his thumb.”

Ivar hold his shaking wife to him more firmly and strokes her red hair. He won’t interrupt her. He’ll let her get it all out.

“And Gods! When I saw you caked in blood and _smiling_ like you did, I nearly lost my mind. I started imagining _him_ in your face and—Oh Gods, I’m sorry!” Sansa sobs out.

“It’s alright, my heart. It’s alright.”

“It was that Gods damned smile, Ivar. If I close my eyes hard enough, I can see the cutting edges of it even now, how it revels in the suffering of others, in my suffering.” She’s bawling into his chest now.

Understanding, Ivar presses his lips onto Sansa’s crown and whispers endearments to her. “I’m sorry, my heart, my wife.”

She breathes deeply, trying to retain some control. “Promise me, Ivar. Promise me, you won’t go that far again.”

She leans up and looks in his eyes. “I’m not sure I could follow you if you do.”

Ivar sits up and hold his wife’s face in his hands. “Never again, Sansa. Never. I swear it to you.”

Kissing her deeply, he speaks into his kiss. _“I go where you go.”_

Sansa stops crying. They spend the rest of the night just holding each other, too emotionally tired for anything else.

In their arms, they hold each other and are home. Pressing their foreheads together, hoping they can hear the other’s thoughts, and perhaps they can because the same thing runs in both of their minds.

**_“You are my home.”_ **

↡

It won’t occur to Sansa until a few weeks from then, that her moonblood is late. That she should have had it as soon as they landed in Kattegat, more than half a moon ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> healing isn’t a linear process


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> take Wessex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my best. I am not a politician.

_ WESSEX _

Aethelwulf and his scarce surviving men run through the gates. Spotting Judith running towards him, he swings off the horse before it has even stopped running. Before she can utter a word, he grabs her by the shoulders. “Not here. I must speak to my father at once.”

The couple runs to the throne room. Aethelwulf is not ready to see his father so drawn and frail, but he is. He wears light robes, sans his regular cape and crown. He never really recovered after Ragnar’s death.

Alfred and Aethelred are with him. This will make it quicker.

“We are defeated.” Aethelwulf announces while striding up to his father’s seat. “They will be here soon.”

Arriving at the raised dais, he addresses Ecbert. “Father, Sire, wife, we have no choice.” He shares a look with Judith who nods at him.

Aethelwulf grabs both of his sons by their shoulders. Aethelred who is his smarter copy, and Alfred who is his son in name and spirit if not by blood. “We have to leave here at once and find safety elsewhere.”

Pushing them both towards Judith who is ready to take them from the hall, he calls. “Go now!”

Judith takes her sons and rushes them out of the throne room. “I will pack a few things. Come on, boys.”

Aethelwulf looks back to his father who is motionless and blank-faced. “Father, did you not hear me?” King Ecbert shows no reaction, so Aethelwulf tries again. “We have to go, no-“

Ecbert interrupts him, his gaze still unfocused. “I cannot leave this place.”

Confused, Aethelwulf scoffs in disbelief. “Father, you are the king, and we cannot hold this keep, not against that army.”

Kneeling down at his father’s feet, Aethelwulf continues. “I cannot allow the king of our country to fall into the hands of our enemies!”

He speaks now as a commander and not a son. “I'm not talking about you as a man, but as a king.”

King Ecbert nods solemnly before responding in a tired voice. “I will renounce the crown in your favor.”

Aethelwulf is shocked, but his father continues. “We will have a short ceremony. Quick,” Ecbert pats him on the shoulder and commands. “Go fetch Bishop Edmund.”

Aethelwulf leans away from his father and shakes his head. “I can’t begin to understand your thinking.” Feeling tears fill his eyes, Aethelwulf says, “but I can’t just let you die.”

Ecbert places his palm on his son’s head. “My son,” He strokes Aethelwulf’s hair, he doesn’t remember when he last did this. “I ask you to trust me this one last time.”

Aethelwulf looks up at him with tears in his eyes. He did not treat his son as he should have, but Ecbert cannot ask for a son more dutiful and loyal to their people. He knows Aethelwulf will be a good king, perhaps even better than him. “This is God’s will.”

Ecbert leans back onto his throne. “It is also mine.” Aethelwulf allows his head to fall onto his father’s knee and Ecbert allows him only a moment before he commands again. “Now, go fetch Bishop Edmund.”

↡

Father and son find themselves kneeling side by side in their chapel an hour later. Bishop Edmund stands in front of them, officiating the ceremony. Ecbert still in his simple light robes with the addition of his crown and Aethelwulf beside him still in his soiled armor. Judith, Aethelred, and Alfred bear witness to this important occasion along with one of the monk initiates.

“Do you, Ecbert, anointed King of Wessex, Mercia, East Anglia, Cornwall, Bretwalda, King of Kings, in the sight of God Almighty, renounce all your thrones and kingdoms in favor of your son and heir, Prince Aethelwulf?” Bishop Edmund asks.

With a small, satisfied smile on his tired face, Ecbert looks to his son and answers. “I do, so help me God.”

Bishop Edmund smiles at him as well as he speaks once again. “So, let me remove from you the scared emblems and signs of your kingship.”

First taking the sceptre in front of Ecbert with both hands very carefully, he moves in front of Aethelwulf and presents it to him. “I give this holy sceptre into your hands, Prince Aethelwulf.”

Placing it gently down in front of the prince, he moves back to Ecbert and gently removes the crown from his head. Holding it high with both hands, he turns once again to Aethelwulf. “And with this ancient crown, I do make thee King over all those places and kingdoms once ruled by your father, but now by you instead.”

Bishop Edmund steps back from both of them as he leads them in making the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

He places both hands over Aethelwulf’s newly crowned head in blessing. “I crown you King Aethelwulf.”

Addressing all the room’s inhabitants he leads them in blessing the new king. “May God save and protect you, all the days of your life.” He bows to the new king as a signal that the ceremony is complete. “Sire.”

Bishop Edmund grabs Aethelwulf’s joined hands. The bishop is trembling when he asks him, “Now, please hurry.”

The inhabitants of the room quickly file out. Aethelwulf supports his frail father.

Bishop Edmund watches them go, and once he is alone, he looks back at the cross in the middle of the room and knows that it is his time as well as Ecbert’s.

↡

The sounds of the bell tolling rings about the courtyard as all the people in the villa run about packing as many valuables onto carts as they can. The remaining soldiers do their best to assist them, carrying heavier trunks and keeping watch on the walls.

By their estimation, the Vikings will arrive within the day.

Aethelwulf, finally in a clean set of clothes and cloak, rushes to the carriage for his wife and sons still yelling orders at soldiers to get everyone evacuated as soon as possible.

Ecbert runs after him and stumbles nearly to his knees, saved only from the mud by Aethelwulf’s swift catch. “Sire! Sire!”

“Father?” Aethelwulf asks, hoping his father has changed his mind about letting himself be captured.

Ecbert hold his son by the shoulders, ready now to wish them farewell for the last time. “My son. I know I have placed my kingdom in the safest hands.”

Upset but unwilling to show it, Aethelwulf forces a smile onto his face, and holds his father up more strongly. Ecbert continues. “Now, you go now, you save yourself and your family,”

Ecbert bows his head and in a lower voice, says, “but only that you can re-gather your strength, and take back what is yours.” He ends with a smile.

Aethelwulf presses his forehead to his father’s. He can only hope to match this man’s mind in politics someday. “It’s all my plan.” He whispers. “God help me!”

Judith runs past them clutching her skirts and her sons. “Boys, straight into the carriage!” She tells them before getting in herself. Ecbert seizes her by the shoulders before she can enter as well.

This is the woman he’s loved even to his own soul’s detriment.

“My sweet Judith,” He kisses her forehead. “Hail and farewell.” Murmuring to her, he continues. “I think I know what is left for me to do.”

He presses his lips to her forehead and resumes into her crown. “I cannot run away from it now.”

Leaning back, he places his hands on either side of her face. “Thank you for loving me.” She says sincerely as she wraps her arms around his shoulders, tears in her eyes.

He smiles at her beatifically, it’s a holy sight. “Love is everything.” He kisses both of her cheeks and sends her off into the carriage. “All shall be well.”

He follows her and stands in the threshold of the carriage. Alfred and Aethelred watch him with tears running down their faces. They have known their grandfather their entire lives and now he condemns himself to death.

Ecbert looks to Alfred first. “Now you, you have a destiny, Alfred, that you cannot escape.” He smiles at the boy, blessed as he is. “You better get used to it. In the meantime, listen and learn.”

He lectures the boy fondly. “Listen to the highest and the lowest. Learn from the prince, and from the shepherd. And remember, the greatest Christian virtue, Alfred, is humility.”

Alfred rushes to him to give him one last embrace. “Thank you, grandfather.” He cries into his grandfather’s hair. “I love you.”

Ecbert pats him on the back. “And I you.” He replies fondly. He allows himself to hold his favoured grandchild for one breath more before prying his arms from him.

When Alfred sits down, he looks to Aethelred next. He should have done better for his son, but he has made the same mistake with this grandson of his. “Now, you take care of your family. You are special too. And your mother.”

He kisses Aethelred on the forehead softly and hopes that he can be forgiven for his preferential treatment and neglect.

Aethelwulf pats him on the back. “We have to go.”

Ecbert steps out of the carriage. “Yes, yes.” He waves them off. “Go, go!”

He turns to see Bishop Edmund walking towards him carrying holy scriptures. “And farewell, Bishop Edmund, my dear vintner.” He says, going to give the man a hug good-bye as well. “May God bless you and keep you.”

The bishop accepts the hug but tells him that he’s staying. “I am going nowhere, Sire.”

Ecbert steps back in gratefulness and disbelief. The bishop continues. “I am staying here with you.” He hands the important documents to a monk initiate. “Thank you.”

Turning back to Ecbert, he says as if it is plain fact. “This is a sacred site. Now, how should I, a Bishop of God’s holy Church, abandon Him now?”

Jokingly, he grabs Ecbert’s arm to turn them to the departing citizens. “Besides, the cellars are still stocked with some of the finest wines in Christendom!” Humming thoughtfully, the bishop continues. “Am I supposed to leave them to the pagans who don't know the difference between one grape and another?”

This draws a laugh from Ecbert, and he holds onto his old friend firmly as a gesture of thanks.

“Let’s go!” Aethelwulf calls to the leaving party as he takes the lead out of the gates.

The two old men turn towards the part, at peace with their fates and shouting out final blessings. “May God be with you all, now and forever!”

When the gates close and he can no longer see his family or his people, Ecbert lets a few tears escape.

_It is done._

_ VIKING CAMP- MORNING AFTER BATTLE _

Ivar meets with his brothers just as the dawn breaks in a much better mood thanks to their decisive victory and finally seeing his wife again. He doesn’t want to say it has been torture these past few days as he does not want to sound melodramatic, but it has been quite torturous.

He enters the command tent with a bright smile on his face. His brothers all roll their eyes at him, with the exception of Bjorn who looks determinedly at the map in front of him. Ahead of them lies a clear path to Wessex and the satisfaction of their vengeance.

“Good morning, my brothers!” Ivar basically chirps. Hvitserk mumbles incoherently where his head is still pressed into his arms on the table. Ubbe just nods at him and Sigurd ignores him. It doesn’t matter, he is much too happy for something so small to bring him down today.

“Aethelwulf got away.” Bjorn growls.

Ivar sits himself down in front of his brother and shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We don’t need Aethelwulf. We need his father.”

Bjorn looks up at him in frustration, so Ivar continues. “With the state of their army as we left it, they can’t hope to mount another attack. They have only two options now; either they stay in their keep and die as they have no hope to defend it against us, or they run in which case we may chase them down.”

Bjorn places both of his hands on the table, leans forward and nods. “Which do you think, brother?”

Ivar looks at the map thoughtfully. “I think they’ll run.” Running his finger along the map, he lands on a swamp like area. “Here, but before we hunt them down, we should take the villa first to serve as a stronghold and base.”

Bjorn nods. “Do you think they would have placed traps in their own home?”

Ubbe answers this time. “We will just have to enter carefully.” Ivar and Sigurd nod in agreement.

Bjorn leans back and readies himself to relay the orders to the army for a forward march. Ubbe gets up and shakes Hvitserk who grumbles as he stands. His eyes still mostly closed. Sigurd pushes past Ivar and makes to exit as well.

Before they can leave, Ivar speaks again. “I don’t think we should follow them into the swamps.”

Sigurd turns to look at Ivar still staring at the map. “Why the change of heart? We’ve got them on the run. Normally, you’d be the first to suggest we finish them off.”

Ivar nods his head solemnly. “I know, but there are two reasons for my suggestion.” He gestures to the seats around the table for his brothers to sit. Hvitserk is first to comply, groaning at need to walk but sitting gratefully in his seat. He keeps his head propped up with an arm, but his eyes fall shut every few seconds.

Ubbe rolls his eyes at his younger brothers’ dramatics but sits down as well. Sigurd sits beside Ivar, and Bjorn resumes his seat at the head of the table.

Ivar continues with his explanation. “The swamps will put any battle at a disadvantage. Though our numbers are great enough to overcome what little resistance there may be, it would lead to an unnecessary loss of life on our part.”

Bjorn shares a look with Ubbe who nods in agreement. “Fine, but if they have Ecbert, we won’t have a choice but to follow.”

“Agreed, but here is my second point. We’ve destroyed their army, they must have less than a hundred fighting men on their side now, that means that the people who may have evacuated are likely just their women and children.”

Surprisingly, it is Ubbe who raises a point against it. “Children they will raise to try and take back Wessex.”

“They don’t have the resources for it, not in a swamp.”

Bjorn leans his elbows on the table and looks Ivar in the eye. “Where is this merciful side coming from, Ivar?”

Ivar shrugs. “It’s less about saving their lives than it is about saving time and our numbers.”

Bjorn and Ubbe huff and roll their eyes. “Somebody here just wants to run home, doesn’t he?”

Ivar leans back, crosses his arms, and smiles. “I won’t lie and say that’s false.”

Though his brothers may act tired of him and annoyed with the situation, they are quite happy for their youngest brother. Sigurd included though he begrudges his brother for it a little.

“Either way,” Bjorn says. “We take Wessex first, then we can think about the refugees if we need to.”

Before Ivar can stand to take his leave, Bjorn decides to tease him a little. “So, Ivar, no longer fighting with the wife, I assume?”

Ivar grins sheepishly. “You could say we’ve... reconciled.”

__

_ VIKINGS-WESSEX VILLA _

There are fresh tracks of horses and carriages leading away from the gates and to the West, further inland.

_They’ve left._

Bjorn sends a forward party of volunteers to scout the place. They push the gates open with no resistance. The courtyard is in shambles, but otherwise empty. The spread out in different directions carefully, but there are no traps anywhere. Even the chapel doors are unbarred and unmanned. One of them waves a flag over the walls signalling the rest of the army to enter.

In the throne room, Ecbert and Edmund share the throne and speak with several empty bottles of wine between them. They hear the gates open. Edmund stands and nods to Ecbert in farewell before taking his place at the chapel.

The Vikings will find no guards here. What few survived were bid to join the rest of the refugees in the swamps. Ecbert and Edmund will have to be enough to slake their bloodlust.

Ecbert sits for a while longer simply waiting for the sons of Ragnar to come in and seize him, kill him most likely. Other than the noise of the gates opening, Ecbert hears silence. Every few minutes he will hear a horn blast come from a different part of the villa, but other than that, absolutely nothing.

_This is almost worse than having his home burnt down because the care they take in not destroying it tells him they plan on staying here and desecrating this place._

Ecbert, finally sick and tired of waiting, exits the doors to the throne room on his own. From a high window, he can see the Viking men and women walking about setting up their axe grinders and fire pits. He spies a little girl with them as well, followed around by a big broad man.

_They brought children?! The audacity!_

He smells smoke as he passes the chapel and says a short prayer for the bishop.

When he finally leaves the great keep, he is met with the sight of all of Ragnar’s sons and in between them the cage he had Ragnar put in stands open. He both appreciates and fears the fact that no weapon is pointed at him but enters the cage all the same.

_What gruesome death do they have planned for me, I wonder? Nothing I don’t deserve for handing over a man I claimed was a friend. Nothing I don’t deserve for ordering a massacre of their settlement._

As if his capture is barely anything at all, they simply lock the cage and leave him be to bake in the afternoon sun and stew in his thoughts for the rest of the day.

Ecbert is ready for death. He thinks that he has been readying himself ever since he handed Ragnar over.

Ragnar’s sons retreat into the keep. They are not followed.

A half hour later, his cage is approached by a stunning red-haired woman who is flanked by two guards on either side. She stares at him for a while before speaking.

“Free him.”

↡

“We have to decide what to do with King Ecbert.” Bjorn announces.

Ivar who has made himself comfortable on the man’s throne works on getting his leg braces off. Today is a harder day than normal. The whites of his eyes bluer than normal. At Bjorn’s words he pauses and looks up at his older brother in confusion. “I don’t understand. What is there to discuss?”

Abandoning his leg braces half-off for now, he leans back. “We kill him.”

Sigurd agrees with him. “Ecbert is as guilty as Aelle so we should do the same thing to him. I say we Blood Eagle him.”

Ivar nods along emphatically, until it gets to the part about the blood eagle in which case, he gives a thoughtful look.

Ivar adds. “We all saw it when Odin came to us, yes? How Ecbert handed our father over to Aelle.”

Ubbe and Hvitserk avoid his gaze, but Bjorn—frustrated—interrupts him. “No one is denying what you are saying!”

Bjorn starts pacing the room, and Ivar knows this is the start of some lecture and sighs in preparation. “But sometimes...sometimes, we have to consider things beyond our feelings.”

Bjorn stops in front of Ivar. “And think what is best for our people!”

Ivar supresses an eye roll. “I know what our people want, Bjorn. And they want what we,” He gestures at himself and Sigurd. “want.”

Ubbe stands and stops Bjorn from continuing his angry tirade. “We have to consider our position of strength and use that to our advantage.”

Ivar can’t supress the eye roll any longer and his entire body leans back from the force. “You don’t have to complicate things. We came here to avenge our father. These people came to avenge our father. We risk losing their respect if we let him live.”

Ubbe counters. “We are in the middle of an enemy kingdom. How long will it take before Saxon forces gather up another army and drive us away?”

Ivar begins to massage the bridge of his nose. “Exactly! So, we kill Ecbert and then we move on. Why would we even want to stay here?”

Bjorn, less angry and more solemn now answers him in a way Ivar knows he can’t answer. “It is what our father wanted.”

Seeing the lack of protest to his statement, Bjorn continues. “He didn't just want to win battles. He wanted land here. He wanted to make settlements, so our people could live, and they could work.”

Hvitserk finally chimes in with a thoughtful hum. “And we all know what happened.”

Any further debate is interrupted by the door opening. They had instructed their men not to interrupt them.

Ivar is ready to scold whoever is about to come into the door when his wife walks in and his resolve weakens.

Then he spots her guards bringing in Ecbert, and his resolve transforms into worried curiosity.

_What is my brilliant, beautiful wife up to?_

She curtseys to everyone in the room as they stand in mixtures of shock and anger at her actions, but she simply walks past everyone to the throne Ivar sits in. He scoots to the left to make space for her to sit.

Podrick and Willem stand by the doors and Ecbert looks about as shocked as everyone else at the turn of events.

“Hello, love.” Ivar greets, kissing his wife on the cheek and wrapping an arm over her shoulders.

“Husband.”

Sigurd is the first to snap out of his shock. “What is this?! What are they doing here?!”

Sansa sits straighter, in full queen mode now. “I thought he should be here to hear his fate, and I do so hate seeing people locked up like birds.”

She is about to continue speaking, but Sigurd interrupts her. “The questions weren’t directed at you.”

Ivar sits up straighter as well. “Watch your mouth, brother.” He snarls fiercely.

Ubbe is the next to question it as Bjorn simply locks eyes with Ecbert. This was his father’s friend all those years ago.

“Why should he be here, sister?”

“You can’t try a man without his presence. That is not justice.” She replies like steel, all cutting edges and unbending hardness.

Then, the picture of courtesy she bids them with a smile. “Please, continue.”

Knowing none of his brothers will start, Ivar proposes again. “I say we just kill him and move on.”

Thankfully, Bjorn responds. “I say we do what our father always wanted. We acquire lands and we settle.”

At this, Ecbert reacts. He seats himself down shakily beside where Hvitserk sits.

Sigurd is the next to speak. “We should Blood Eagle him.”

Sansa stiffens beside him at the words, but he strokes her hand to reassure her, he won’t let it happen. Hvitserk speaks now, revealing his side. “Our father’s settlement failed but maybe this one won’t. We hold a king ransom and have a great army.”

Ubbe nods at Hvitserk’s words. “We do.”

Ivar repeats his earlier issue. “And how long before that army rebels when they find out we let go of the man we promised to kill?!”

Sansa lays a calming hand on his lap and taps with her index finger twice. Ivar breathes deeply and leans back into the backrest.

_They will not get anywhere at this rate._

“I loved your father.” The silence is interrupted by the frail old king. “He was my friend.”

 _And yet you betrayed him._ Sansa thinks. _Politicians are not so different wherever they come from._

“And I know that, more than anything, he wanted to build a farming community here.”

Ivar cuts in. “And you killed all the settlers.”

“Yes.” He answers without hesitation or remorse. “It’s true. I did.”

Ivar can respect a man who is so unapologetic about his decisions. Their lives mattered little in the grand scheme of things, but it is a point against his favour, nonetheless.

“We can make a new deal.” This piques everyone’s interest. “What are you proposing?” Bjorn asks.

“Well, it's only a matter of time before you are driven away from here.” He stands to walk about the room and give his proposal. “Without any legal right to English lands, you have no hope of staying.”

Ecbert stops in front of his throne and turns his back to it with his arms held behind him. “Well, I am King of Kings. I can give you that legal right.”

Ecbert gives his brothers time to consider it. Ivar just wants him dead and has tuned out entirely from the conversation. Daydreaming instead of home, Winterfell, and how the snows fall so gently but without pause, how the walls are warm enough to keep the cold out in the dead of night, how the water for the baths are warm instead of freezing cold like the fresh streams and rivers they have here.

“I will give you legal claim to the Kingdom of East Anglia. It's a large kingdom.” Ecbert continues. “Because I am king, no one can question that claim.”

“Are you though?” Sansa speaks before he can continue explaining his offer.

“Am I what, dear?” Ecbert turns to her now.

_Who is this woman?_

“Are you king?” She asks, completely toneless and cold. The room seems to drop ten degrees when her eyes focus on him.

“...Of course, dear. King of Wessex, Mercia, East Anglia, Cornwall, Bretwalda, King of Kings.”

She nods and Ecbert prepares to talk more about his proposal. Before any words can exit his mouth, she speaks again.

“I think you’re lying to us.”

The chill that goes down his spine freezes any words that he might say.

“I think you let yourself be left here without guard because you knew either way that the crown would go to your heir upon your death, but then why offer up the land so readily when you massacred the settlement before?”

“Because I loved Ragnar.” Ecbert tries.

Sansa stands and approaches the old man. “And yet you betrayed him.”

She circles him like a wolf might circle their prey. Ecbert follows her with his eyes, his palms starting to sweat. This is the only way to prevent them from going after the rest of his people and he is failing.

“What would you ask if we agree?” She asks from behind him.

Ivar and his brothers let her work. Something has started to become suspicious to them as well.

“I will only tell you that once you agree to my proposal.” He answers, turning around to face Sansa.

↡

Sansa has Podrick and Willem lead him to his rooms under guard as they discuss what to do about his proposal.

When the door shuts behind them, she waits a few moments and then speaks. “He’s lying.”

Hvitserk turns to her confused. “About what?”

She turns and walks back to the wide throne. “About the land, the offer, being king.”

Sansa takes her seat beside Ivar and leans back. “Take it from an experienced liar and politician. This is no King’s Gambit; this is merely a distraction.”

Ubbe asks her next. “What makes you say?”

“Whenever I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game.” Even Bjorn is paying attention now. Good, perhaps he can take a few notes and make a good king as well as a good warrior.

“I assume the worst. What’s the worst reason he could possibly have for offering up the land, or letting himself be abandoned?” She continues.

Bjorn slams his fist onto a table in anger. “I don’t understand! What-“

Ivar laughs and puts a hand around his wife’s waist, understanding it now. “Oh, my wife is too clever!”

Sansa rolls her eyes, but her gaze is still focused on his other brothers. Ivar scoffs, she can wait as long as she likes, his brothers are brilliant on the battlefield, but they don’t think like he and Sansa do.

“He is trying to lull us into a false sense of security, complacency.” Looking to his brothers who only look more confused at his words he continues. “So that we don’t go after the rest of his people. More importantly, his son and heir: _Aethelwulf_.”

Ivar continues. “He offered us East Anglia freely-“

“But he wants something in exchange, doesn’t he?” Ubbe interrupts.

Ivar rolls his eyes and Sansa smacks him lightly on the chest for it. “No, Ubbe. What he requests cannot possibly equal the land he offers us in return, and so he baits us with the prospect. Relying on our greed and belief in his sincerity that we will accept.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Bjorn asks, but to Ivar’s surprise, he looks at Sansa instead of him.

“I suggest we execute him for his crimes and leave.”

Bjorn opens his mouth to protest. “Wait.” Sansa says, holding a hand up. “You have to consider the other point. Why would he let himself be captured with no resistance, no defence?”

Hvitserk, finally catching on, is the one that answers. “Because he is no longer king. If he had been, it would have been Aethelwulf who stayed to defend this place and his father who ran.”

“Good.” Sansa congratulates. “But what if he ordered it so?”

“Then the crown would pass to Aethelwulf upon his death, either way, but...” Hvitserk trails off, so Ivar prompts him. “But?”

“But he wouldn’t offer us the land this readily, this quickly, not when he knew he was bound for death as soon as we caught him.” Hvitserk finishes.

 _There may be hope for Hvitserk yet._ Ivar thinks.

Bjorn closes his mouth and crosses his arms.

Ubbe’s face dawns with understanding. “Then should we hunt down Aethelwulf, demand the land from him?”

Ivar leans forward and counters. “With what leverage? The man we have is no longer king and killing the rest of them won’t give us the legal rights to the land.”

Ubbe nods and thinks to himself.

Sansa continues for Ivar. “You need them alive if you want to bargain for the rights that only they can grant, but you must acquire the proper leverage for it first.”

Bjorn paces again before finally speaking. “It is settled, then. We kill him, then we leave this place.”

So saying, he walks out of the room.

↡

Ivar had told her not to, but she prefers to look anyone she condemns in the eye before their death.

_“You owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.”_

Podrick stays in the room with her, but Willem leaves to guard the door from the outside.

He sits by his bed, nursing a cup of wine.

“So my fate is decided?” He asks without looking at her.

She cocks her head to the side. “Your fate was sealed as soon as you handed over Ragnar Lothbrok to King Aelle.”

He sighs and pours her a cup as well. Sansa sits across him and declines. “Did they agree to my proposal, dear?”

“I’m afraid not, Ecbert.” The lack of title is telling enough.

“I suppose you figured it out then, that I am no longer king.” He huffs.

Sansa nods in response as she watches the old man deflate completely.

_At the end of it all, isn’t he just an old man trying to protect his family?_

“Will they go after my family?” He asks, gaze blank and oh-so tired.

Sansa shakes her head. “No, there isn’t really a point to that. It won’t give them legal rights to East Anglia like they want, not if they have no leverage.”

A little spark lights in the old man’s eyes at the good news. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.”

“ _The_ North?” He looks over his cup at her.

“It is a kingdom in Westeros.”

“Westeros?”

Sansa leans back into the seat. She feels very tired suddenly. “This is a very big world, and I am not the best at geography.”

“How did you come to be allies with the sons of Ragnar?”

“I married one of them.” She murmurs.

It is silent for a while, and Sansa takes the time to simply observe the man. In a way, he reminds her of Petyr Baelish, but much more self-sacrificing, and strangely spiritual.

“I think you would have been a worthy adversary, or an ally...” He says.

Sansa lets the man trail off before asking. “What would you have requested had we not figured it out?”

Ecbert sighs. He’s been doing that a lot today. “I was going to ask them to let me choose how I die.”

“And how would you have chosen it?”

Ecbert chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t actually know, Your Grace.”

↡

When Sansa makes her way back to the Lothbrok brothers, they are preparing to Blood Eagle the poor man. The very thought of it makes Sansa want to puke. She had asked Arya what they did to the man to make him scream so last time.

Ivar is the first to notice her, as usual. “What did he ask for, love?”

Sansa walks over to them and throws the knife off the fire. Bjorn looks both thankful and annoyed somehow, but he waits for an explanation.

_Good, he’s learning._

“He asked to choose the manner of his death.”

Sigurd and Hvitserk groan in protest. Ubbe prods for more information. “So, what did he decide?”

Sansa is silent a while simply looking into the fire. “He hasn’t—decided yet that is.”

“Then it’s settled. We Blood Eagle him.”

Sansa can’t supress the flinch at the words even as her gaze turns blank. Ivar is the one who protests for her. “Maybe-maybe we can do something else.”

“What are you talking about, Ivar? Out of all of us, I’d think it was you who most wanted to do this.”

Ivar shakes his head. “I did, but not anymore. He wasn’t lying when he said he loved our father, and I believe our father loved him in return. Otherwise, why else would he stop here instead of just surrendering himself to Aelle?”

“You have a point.” Bjorn concedes. “but he is still responsible for the death of our father. We did it to Aelle, and we will do it to him.”

Sansa’s face shutters completely. _Just an old man trying to protect his family._

“Aelle was directly responsible, and so we Blood Eagled him. Ecbert merely allowed it to happen. Let the punishment fit the crime.” Ivar says, going over to his wife to hold her. She’s trembling, her gaze still blank.

“And what would be the fitting punishment?” Ubbe asks.

“We behead him for his crimes against our family and against our people.”

Seeing how none of his brothers look convinced, Ivar adds. “We might be able to use the method of his death as a point in our favour when we bargain for land here.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can prove to these Saxons that we also know how to play by their rules, so that they will more likely deal fairly with us in the future.” Ivar explains. His brothers stop what they are doing to look at him and Sansa presses her face into his chest. Thankfully, she has stopped shaking.

Ivar’s brothers share a look and one by one they nod. Bjorn turns to Ivar to tell him the decision.

“Fine. A beheading it is.”

↡

At dusk the next morning, Ecbert is let out of his rooms and led to the courtyard. A gathering of people surrounds him as he is led to a raised platform in the centre of the crowd.

On the platform stands Ragnar’s sons. Bjorn holds an axe as his brothers stand to one side. When he steps back, Ecbert can see a solid block of wood on it. Perhaps they will nail his arms to it so that they can more easily cut the blood eagle onto his back.

He does his damnedest to keep walking, his head held high, even as he stumbles and shakes the whole way there.

When his escorts lay him onto the block, he strengthens his resolve and stays silent.

“For being complicit in the death of King Ragnar Lothbrok, your friend, our father; you, Ecbert, King of Kings, are hereby sentenced to death...” Bjorn fades off.

_By the Blood Eagle._

“By beheading.”

Ecbert cannot supress the relief he feels that makes him open his eyes and look up. He sees the red-haired queen in the crowd and knows somehow that she is responsible. He gives her a nod of thanks and she inclines her head in return.

“Do you have any final words?” Ivar asks him.

“None.” Ecbert replies. All that needs to be said has been spoken already. He is ready.

As the axe swings down, it is like time slows. Voices fill his ears like the rushing wind.

 _"All my future lies with Ragnar."_ Athelstan

 _"The only person you truly care for is yourself."_ Lagertha

 _"I give myself freely to you."_ Sweet Judith

 _"Thank you, Grandfather. I love you."_ Blessed Alfred

 _"I crown you King of Wessex and Mercia."_ Bishop Edmund

 _"They will avenge me."_ Ragnar

The winds stop as abruptly as they started, and Ragnar’s voice fills his head with such clarity.

**_"Don't be afraid."_ **

The axe falls.

“I’m not.”

Ecbert only feels a quick sting, then nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't try to pull a fast one on the fastest one #kachow


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> good news is whatever i want it to be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve gone off the rocker, ladies and germs

_ WESSEX _

When it is finished, Sansa oversees Ecbert’s burial in an unmarked grave inside the keep’s walls. No one cares much for what happens to the corpse.

The Vikings will quit this place a fortnight after, they decide. Thoroughly stripping the place of any remaining riches.

A sennight after Ecbert’s execution, they set up a raised stage in front of the castle and prepare for a celebratory feast. Their vengeance complete at last.

Bjorn leads their people in a toast. “Friends!”

The crowd cheers, still flush with their victories and the many riches left behind in this villa.

“No one will ever be able to doubt what we have achieved! An army of all our peoples, and we have defeated not one, but two English kingdoms!” Bjorn continues, raising his cup of wine taken from the castle’s cellars.

 _A little early in the afternoon for a drink._ Ivar thinks, taking small sips of his and Sansa’s shared citrussy drink. They found a small potted plant in the gardens that looked very much like a lemon tree, only with orange fruits instead of yellow ones.

Sansa sits beside him chewing on liver steaks. She’s had a real taste for them since getting here.

“For us, the sons of Ragnar, our duty was to avenge our father's death, and that we have done.” Bjorn ends his toast. “Skold!”

The crowd echoes, “Skold!” and they all take a hearty drink.

Bjorn steps away from the table to walk amongst the crowd. He is tall enough to still be very visible even among the other standing attendants. “Now, all that is left to accomplish is his second dream, to acquire lands and farm here.”

Bjorn turns back to the raised table where his brothers and Sansa are seated. It is a strange arrangement for Sansa to be up there, but Ivar is reluctant to let her out of his sight for even a moment nowadays. It makes his brothers want to roll their eyes.

“I entrust his last dream to my brothers, equally sons of Ragnar.”

Ubbe sits up straighter at his brother’s words and Sigurd puts aside the stringed instrument he was plucking at.

“Unfortunately, I will not be here to see this new settlement grow and thrive. My fate will take me elsewhere.” Bjorn looks each of his brothers in the eye. “I always knew I had to return to explore the Mediterranean Sea. And now I feel free to follow my destiny.”

Turning back to the crowd he gives another toast. “Skol!”

“Skol!”

Halfdan stands, to his brother’s surprise. With his cup still raised, he announces. “I want to go with Bjorn.” Halfdan claps his brother on the back. “I want to see the Mediterranean.”

Harald stands to hug his brother as Bjorn goes over to clasp arms with the man.

Ubbe stands to give his proposal. “I say we claim East Anglia.”

The other Vikings nod along in agreement. Sigurd begins plucking on his instrument again and Hvitserk takes another bite of food. Ivar steals bites off his wife’s plate and she swats his hands away.

“We will build a stronghold while the Saxons are in disarray. It is a good opportunity.” Ubbe continues. “Do you agree, Ivar?”

Ivar stops mid chew, flattered and surprised by the attention. He swallows, nearly choking and follows it up with a gulp of orange juice. “I agree that we should stay together and build a stronghold, but not in East Anglia.”

Leaning back, he watches as Ubbe sits back down, expression inscrutable. Ivar continues. “My suggestion is that we go back north, to where we defeated Aelle.”

He leans his elbows on the table and nods at his older brother. “We should establish a permanent camp, as you say, but near the coast, from where we can raid wherever we want.”

Sansa coughs meaningfully into a clean scrap of cloth and gives her husband a side-eye. Ivar corrects himself. “From where _you_ can raid wherever you want.”

Ubbe chews thoughtfully before speaking. “Our father’s dream was that we wouldn't be just raiders.” Ubbe nods at Hvitserk. “That we would behave in a different way.”

Leaning further forward, Ivar argues. “You're not listening, Ubbe. We have to have a stronghold.” Ivar’s head leans to the left and he speaks more slowly as if explaining it to children. “If we go north, we are closer to our own lands and shipping routes.”

Using his hands to gesture emphatically, he finishes his proposal. “We can build an _impregnable_ fortress.”

Hvitserk looks to his brothers before settling his gaze on Ivar. “Where?”

Thankful for the support, Ivar leans back into his seat. “I've heard of a town called York.”

Sigurd scoffs, but Ivar ignores it. “It is built on a major river, and it is not far from the sea. And I think that we should take it.”

Sigurd puts his instrument down. “No.” He shakes his head. “It would seem like a withdrawal.”

Ivar nods, conceding. “Yes, yes, it would.” Wiping his mouth with a scrap of cloth to make him wait, he does so enjoy tormenting Sigurd. “But it is only tactical.”

Ivar addresses their de facto leader Ubbe for approval. “Surely you understand, Ubbe.”

He addresses the rest of the population now. “If we establish ourselves in the middle of the country, then we are surrounded by enemies.”

The audience looks sceptical, so Ivar continues. “In York, we are nearer home, closer to reinforcements and assistance.” Turning back to the brother that seems most likely to agree with him, he asks. “Right, Hvitserk?”

Hvitserk stands. “I agree with Ivar. We should go north and attack York.”

Ivar smiles. It’s nice to be supported by his brothers. He addresses the crowd once more. “We take York, then we let them come to us. With an army such as ours, they can try to drive us away!”

They cheer in reply. Ivar continues, enjoying the attention, Sansa just rolls her eyes at his dramatics. “Who can stand in our way now?!”

Sigurd interrupts his grandstanding. “What you just said, that is not the Viking way.”

Ivar rolls his eyes at him. Sigurd just loves to spoil his fun. “Frankly, dear Sigurd, I don't care what you say.”

Seeing Sigurd roll his eyes right back infuriates him. He presses. “The truth is, I wouldn't even piss down your throat even if your lungs were on fire.”

Sigurd stands and takes raises his cup to Ivar mockingly. “Well, maybe that's because you're not really a man. Are you, Boneless?”

Ivar’s hands itch to wrap around Ice Shard’s hilt or a good sharp axe. Sigurd, perhaps not knowing or caring about his brother’s mounting temper, keeps talking. “I don’t have to listen to you, Ivar. No one does. You’re a coward and a traitor to our ways.”

“Shut your mouth!” At his outburst, Sansa grips his thigh tightly in warning.

Ubbe tries to placate him. This might not end well. “Ivar, don’t listen to him.”

Ivar stays silent, but Sigurd takes it as encouragement. “We are more sons of Ragnar than you will ever be.”

Cocking his head to the side, he jabs cruelly with a mocking smile. “I'm not so sure. As far as I remember, Ragnar didn't play the oud. And he certainly didn't offer his arse to other men.”

The crowd laughs, but Sigurd is fuming now. “I guess it must be hard for you now that your mommy's dead, knowing she's the only one who ever really loved you.”

Ivar makes to grab for a knife in his arm bracer, fully intending to throw it into his brother’s eye. Sansa grabs his arm with both hands, stopping him. He turns to see her horrified expression and lowers his shaking hands reluctantly.

Sigurd relaxes slightly, his body still slightly tense and ready to throw himself out of the way. He spits on the ground and comments bitingly. “Did you learn to be a coward from your foreign whor-“

A knife flies into the table right between his fingers, interrupting him. “I’d watch what you say about my sister.” A voice in the crowd says. The Vikings look around at each other questioningly before Arya melts out of the crowd.

Ivar fumes in his seat but stays silent. Arya can handle this, and his wife is no shirking violet. Sigurd will learn why these Starks are called wolves.

“What kind of a man taunts and tells lies about his own brother?” Arya continues, prowling up to the stage like the wolf she is. People seem to forget that she’s a captain and a killer because of her small stature.

_Their mistake._

She sits on her sister’s arm rest. Sansa sits tall, like a queen in her simple chair, steel in her spine and ice in her veins.

“They’re worse than we ever were as little girls, Sans.” Arya stage whispers to her sister. Ivar feels scolded, but he’s much too excited for what is about to follow to do anything but relax into his seat, smirking into his cup.

Sansa inclines her head at her sister, acknowledging her statement. Sigurd pries the knife out of the table, infuriated. He opens his mouth to speak more poison, but Sansa raises her hand to stop him.

Everyone in attendance holds their breath. They have scarcely heard this woman speak, if at all, but the very cold seems to follow her around as loyally as her bodyguards.

“Lashing out for attention, how childish.” She states.

“Stay out of this. This is a matter among family.”

“You seem to forget that I've married into it already, or rather your brother has married into mine.” She stands and walks around the table to him. Ubbe and Hvitserk lean out of the way. Bjorn has already gone off to prepare for his journey.

“Do you want to compete with each other, Sigurd? Is that it? It usually is.” She whispers to him, unafraid because she knows Arya is watching him like a wolf and will cut off his entire hand if he raises even a pinkie against her.

She breathes into his ear now. “Are you afraid, afraid that you’ll always be in his shadow? Afraid that everyone will always prefer him above you despite being a cripple? Afraid that he’ll achieve more than you ever will?”

Her proximity makes the world feel unbearably small. There is a palpable chill in the air and the world goes absolutely silent. It makes the hairs of his arms raise. There is no reprieve from this foul magic. Arya’s eyes seem to shift from grey to a threatening yellow.

Sansa wraps an arm around his shoulders. “I think you are.” She whispers breathily.

Sansa leans past his shoulder and gives him a little sniff. “Yes, the stench is unmistakeable... _Fear._ ”

When she leans away and heads back to her seat, Sigurd sits frozen with his eyes wide, finally able to breathe. The world zooms back into action and colour. His head feels strangely lighter.

Sansa holds a braid of his hair in her hands which she tosses to her husband. Arya smirks at him when Sansa also tosses her knife back into her hands.

_What the fuck was that?_

Ivar sits, smirking at him over his cup and though it makes Sigurd want to fly into a rage, something stops him. Ubbe leans on his arms on the table in front of him, tired.

Hvitserk is the one to break the tension. “So, York?”

_ CASTLE ROOMS _

Sansa is sitting at a dressing table in her shift when her husband walks in. She smiles at him through the mirror. She stands to go to him, and he walks toward her to meet her in the middle of the room.

He’s been having to smooth ruffled feathers since her show and the impromptu haircut she gave Sigurd.

_Honestly, he's much better off with the new hair._

“I like this much better. You get to pacify vassals and I get to lie back and look pretty.” She says as she wraps her arms around his waist and gives his jaw a kiss.

She looks up at him and continues cheekily. “Maybe I'll let you rule for a few days when we get back home.”

Ivar shakes his head and wraps his arms about her shoulders in return. “And have to deal with Lord Glover’s complaints for days on end? I think not, my wolf-wife.”

She giggles at him, her eyes close in joy and he takes the opportunity to plant a swift kiss on her smiling mouth.

The swift kiss evolves into something deeper. Ivar rests his hands on her waist.

When he pulls his wife flush against him, he feels a solid bump at her middle. Still, not enough to distract him.

When he raises his hands to her chest, she flinches. That makes him pause.

“What's wrong?”

Sansa pulls away from him. “Nothing. Just sensitive, I guess?”

“Are you...?” Ivar asks, meaningfully looking down at her bottoms. Though he doesn’t have an issue with it, she’s much more particular and refuses to let him touch her when her moonblood is upon her.

She shakes her head. “No, no. My last one was...was...” Sansa trails off trying to remember when she last had her courses.

_I'm sure I had them before we left Winterfell. My next one should be-_

“My next one should have been-should have been-“ Sansa gasps and goes over to her mirror.

Ivar stands dumbfounded at his wife’s strange behavior. “What's wrong?”

Sansa lifts her shift over her head. All thoughts of propriety fly out the room. This is her husband; he's seen it all anyway.

Ivar doesn't mind the free show and goes to hold his wife from behind. He presses a kiss to her neck distractingly and starts caressing her arms. “Not that I don't appreciate the view, but what are we looking at, my love?”

Sansa trails a few fingers along the small firm bump low in her belly. “Ivar, I could be-I think I’m... I’m pregnant.”

Ivar’s hands stop moving. His eyes go wide and they stare at her intently through the mirror.. “Are you- are you sure?”

His lack of happy reaction makes her nervous, but Sansa wants a family and she's told him that. “I’d have to see someone to be sure, but I feel different and-and I've missed my courses... Ivar, I'm almost absolutely sure.”

He can't hold back the happy tears that fill his eyes any longer. He presses his face fully into the crook of her neck. “Gods, Sansa. Thank you. Thank you so much.” He says through sobbing breaths, holding her by the waist as gently as he can.

“You’re happy?”

He turns her around to look in her eyes and hold her face in his shaking hands so that she can see just how happy he is. “You have no idea how much. Gods, Sansa. Thank you.”

She positively beams at him, happy tears also in her eyes. “I think I have an idea of how much, husband.”

He brings their lips together and speaks into her lips. “I love you. I love you so much.”

They must look utterly demented, crying and giggling into a kiss, both their hands on Sansa’s naked belly. “I love you, too.”

↡

The happy couple lies in bed together. Now that they’ve noticed it, the small bump is unmistakable and unforgettable. Ivar has his head in her lap as she lies back on all their pillows.

Sansa plays with her husband’s hair. Though she loves the braids he wears quite fiercely, there is something softer and more relaxed about his strange haircut when it’s all loose. A bit like a mushroom, albeit a very handsome one.

“It seems silly to think, but I'm in love with her already.” He murmurs into the skin of her exposed belly.

Sansa sits higher on the pillows to better watch her husband. There are no longer any tears, but he hasn’t been able to wipe the brilliant smile off his face. “So, you think it will be a girl?”

Ivar looks up to his wife, placing a protective hand over her middle. “I'm hoping for a girl so that she can be just like her mother. All red hair, clear blue eyes, smart and pretty and kind and perfect.” Ivar presses a kiss and a prayer onto her abdomen and hides behind his hair. “Not a cripple, not like me.”

She combs his hair back. “Would you love them less if they were?” She asks him seriously.

Ivar looks back up at her and presses another kiss to where their daughter could be growing as they speak. “Never, not when they'd be part you. I could never love anything that is part of you less than wholly.”

Sansa is touched but he sees that it still bothers her, so he continues. “All my life has been a struggle. I've been in rage all my life. I don't want them to suffer as I have.”

Sansa sighs in understanding. “I know, my love. I know.”

Ivar lies back down on her lap and away from her stomach. He doesn't want to crush the baby. “I just want them to be healthy. Whichever they are, just healthy and I'll be so grateful I'd never ask for anything more.”

Sansa smiles down at him reassuringly. She knows he'll love them whatever they are and however they come. “I have no plans of having just one, Ivar.”

“I'll give you all the children your heart would desire, my wolf-wife.”

Sansa squirms at the endearment, rubbing her legs together. Ivar’s head jostles and he can read the desire in her eyes.

He crawls up her body from his position on her lap. Placing kisses on the length of her as he goes.

“...Ivar-Ivar, I'm pregnant.” She weakly protests.

“There's nothing wrong with making sure.” He replies right as he presses his lips to hers.

_ VIKING CAMP, REPTON _

What little is left of the camp is being packed away. Bjorn and his crew will take 3 boats back to the Mediterranean. They leave this afternoon.

Harald, Halfdan, and the Sons of Ragnar meet to go over any further details inside their planning tent.

“Will you return first to Kattegat?” Harald asks. The man couldn’t be more obvious about his intentions if he tried.

Bjorn almost wants to lie and say he will, if only to dissuade that man from attacking, but he has faith in his mother and Halfdan may try and betray him for his lies. “I have no intention of doing that.” He shares a look with his brothers hoping they will at least send word even though it is unlikely they will help Lagertha in any way. “My fate is too urgent.”

“Then I will go there.” Absolutely no one is surprised by this. Even Halfdan has to give his brother a disbelieving look at his gall. “And I will tell Lagertha about avenging your father’s death and the defeat of the Saxons.”

Bjorn might as well take advantage of his journey, sure of Harald’s defeat against Lagertha. “Tell my mother...and Torvi and the children that I think of them.”

Ubbe and Ivar, the only other married men in the tent, look disappointed at Bjorn, but he continues. “And I will return.” It is half a promise to his family and half a reminder to Harald.

_Is it the fate of Lothbrok men to always abandon their families?_

**_Not mine._** Ivar thinks.

Bjorn takes a sip of ale from his horn. This will be the last he will be having for a long while. “If the Gods will it.”

Harald toasts to him. “Skold!” Looking too satisfied to be inconspicuous.

Bjorn rolls his eyes and leaves the tent. He’s a Viking, not an idiot.

Still, Harald and Halfdan share a look before following him out of the tent.

↡

Harald approaches his brother as they each prepare for their separate voyages. “Are you sure?” He asks his little brother. Shaking his head, he says what he really means. “I don’t understand why you want to split with me.”

Halfdan examines his sword, unwilling to answer him or look at him. Harald continues almost pleading with him. “We’re brothers. We belong together.”

Harald holds Halfdan by the shoulder. “We've always had the same dream.”

Halfdan sheathes his sword. “No. It’s your dream.”

He turns to Harald and shrugs his hand off. “You want to be King of Norway.” Less harshly, he holds his brother’s shoulder. “I don't have a dream about being the brother of the King of Norway.”

Harald shakes his head and smiles acceptingly. “Then what is your dream?”

Halfdan looks at the boats longingly. “I want to travel.”

Harald rolls his eyes. His brother can be too simple sometimes. “I mean, what is your ambition?”

Halfdan smacks a hand over his brother’s mostly shaved head from behind and swings his long braid about. “You have ambition enough for the both of us, brother.”

Harald grabs his braid from his brother’s hand and swats him in the face with the end of it. Halfdan laughs and continues. “I'm a simple fellow. Traveling to the ends of the known world, that's enough for me.”

Seriously now, Harald turns to his brother. This is the man who has watched his back from the beginning. The one man that he can rely to always be on his side and to support him. “I will miss you.” He says sincerely.

He claps a hand back on his brother’s shoulder. He isn’t going to break down and cry though the tears do fill his eyes readily enough. “Everyone needs a brother to cover their back.”

Halfdan isn’t so restrained. He pulls his brother in for a manly hug. Their arms thumping each other on the back. “I'll still do that...wherever I am.”

Halfdan lets go and starts heading for Bjorn’s boat.

Harald calls out fondly. “Go to your new boyfriend! Be happy together!”

Halfdan looks back over his shoulder to gesture rudely at him with his middle finger.

↡

Bjorn speaks to his brothers right by the boat. “If I don’t return, take care of Torvi and the children for me.”

“Not Lagertha?” Hvitserk asks.

Bjorn smirks. “My mother can look after herself, and I’m not fool enough to leave it to you whose mother she killed.”

“Hey, I made a vow-“ Ivar argues, but Bjorn interrupts him. “Yes. _You_ have.” He looks at Ivar’s brothers intently.

“You are my brothers and we’ve just finished taking revenge for the death of our father. It only makes sense for you to try and go after Lagertha next.”

Ubbe and Hvitserk share a nervous look. Sigurd doesn’t look very interested. Ivar is almost offended at his lack of care about their mother.

“I won’t get in your way.” Bjorn tells them, surprisingly. “It is your right, but don’t expect me to help you.”

Hvitserk crosses his arms. “Can we expect you to try and defend her?”

Bjorn scoffs, almost laughing. “Lagertha can take care of herself. She doesn’t need me to do it for her.”

He sighs. “She is my mother, but even I can see that what she did was wrong. I won’t be here to stand in your way anyway. Just keep Torvi and the children out of it.”

Ubbe nods. “Of course.”

Bjorn nods back at him and claps each of his brothers on the back in farewell before turning and stepping into his boat.

↡

Winter’s daughter meets his ships a mile out at sea. They signal him over with flags. There is some difficult manoeuvring the boats to let him board the larger ship.

Captain Stark, Wynafryd, Wylla, and Helga’s missing-presumed-dead child meet them on the deck. Before Bjorn can ask how they came to have her, Wynafryd speaks. “We need you to return this child to where she’s from.” She says, ushering a trembling Tanaruz forward.

Bjorn quirks an eyebrow upwards at the severe looking woman. “And why would we do that?”

Arya watches all of this amusedly. Wynafryd rolls her eyes. “Because you’re the ones who took her.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“I’m sorry, were you not in charge of the expedition?” She asks provokingly. “Were you not accountable for the actions of your crew?”

Arya cuts in before it can turn into a brawl. “What do you want in exchange?”

Bjorn’s gaze cuts to the smaller woman. “You have nothing that I want. Do it yourself.”

Arya rolls her eyes. She doesn’t have the patience for this kind of bullshit like Sansa does. “We have a map.”

Bjorn tries to pin her with his gaze, but Arya lets it roll over her shoulders. Much bigger and meaner men have tried to intimidate her. He’s free to ask them how that went. Might need a telepath or a medium, or one of those Ouija Boards she’s heard of though.

“Good for you, Captain Stark. So do I.”

“I mean a bigger, better map, you idiot. I’m starting to think my sister married the only brain cell in your family.”

Bjorn sputters at the insult from this puny woman. He could throw her off the boat with one hand if he wanted, but the prospect of that map is too tempting. “Fine. Let’s see it.”

Arya cackles at him. “No, no, no. Swear on your word that you’ll deliver her home safely straight away first.”

Bjorn crosses his arms and agrees reluctantly. “Fine. I swear it.”

Arya smirks at him and crooks two fingers forward. Gendry comes forward with a large rolled up parchment. “You’re free to take a look at it first, if you want.”

Bjorn gets down onto the shiny deck and unrolls it. He can see it all now; Westeros, Kattegat, England, the Mediterranean, a large solitary land mass to the north, everything stretched out before him, yet it looks incomplete still.

“What about the rest of it?”

Arya shrugs her shoulders casually. “I’m working on it.”

She ushers him off her boat and back down to his. They lower a chair looking thing where Tanaruz sits as well. Bjorn’s boat pushes off, but before they can get too far, the green-haired girl runs to the railings and shouts. “WAIT! WHERE DID YOU FIND HER?!”

Bjorn smiles at her energy and cups his hands over his mouth. “ALGECIRAS!”

She jumps at her sister, screaming so loud even Bjorn can hear it clearly. “HA! I TOLD YOU SO!”

Bjorn shakes his head fondly.

_Younger siblings._

↡

When Ivar walks away from the departing boats, he starts looking for Floki. He wasn’t with them at the Wessex villa, but everyone’s been privy to Helga’s recent breakdown and has been as understanding as they can be.

Ivar doesn’t see Floki at first. He spots the small unfinished boat and a worried feeling starts coming upon him. It’s a bit bigger than the ones they would use for a send-off, but it’s the perfect size for a send-off for two.

Sufficiently worried when the though dawns on him, he starts walking faster and calling out. “Floki! Floki!”

Ivar spies the top of his bald head from behind the unfinished ship. He sighs in relief but is still worried. “Why are you building a toy boat?” He laughs nervously.

Floki replies solemnly. “It’s not a toy.” He walks toward Ivar. “It’s a two-man boat. One that I can sail on my own or with a little help.”

Ivar stops in his tracks. He can see Helga now, working on the sail. She hasn’t spoken a word to anyone since Tanaruz’s disappearance. She’s become more withdrawn and paler, completely unkempt and fraying at the edges. Ivar knows what his wife and her sister have done. He knows that what they did was for the best, but Helga’s depression was never the intention, just an unfortunate consequence.

“And where do you think you’re going to sail it to?” Ivar asks, his head bowed. Floki wants to leave; leave him behind.

Floki continues working on the other side of his unfinished ship. “To where the Gods decide.” He won’t look at the boy he’s raised as his own son.

Ivar wants to cry. “I don’t want you to go.” In an attempt to convince him, he tries appealing to Floki’s hatred for Christians. “I still need you in the fight against the Christians. My brothers are too soft, and you know that, Floki.”

Floki continues applying sap to his ship.

“Please?” Ivar tries, desperately. “You know that you are like my real father.”

Floki drops his stuff abruptly and stomps up to this man that he has taught, and built for, and loved much like he loved Ragnar. “No.” He says. “Your real father was Ragnar Lothbrok. The most famous man in the world.” He presses his hand on the young man’s braided head. “Don't you ever forget that, Ivar.”

“Now, let me get on with my boat.” He smiles, about to walk away when Ivar speaks again.

“You cannot leave me. I’m-I’m about to become a father. And I-I don’t know how to do this, Floki.”

Floki turns back to him in surprise, but Ivar continues with his head bowed so Floki cannot see the tears that run down his face. “That is why you cannot leave. I need you to teach me, Floki.”

Floki goes back to press their foreheads together. “I have to leave, Ivar.” He whispers, stroking back Ivar’s hair. “Helga needs this. There is nothing left for us here. This world no longer interests her, and so we will submit ourselves to the tides and the winds, and the will of the gods, come what may.”

Ivar looks up at him, but Floki can’t bear to break his heart any more than he already has and pulls him close. “Her heart is broken. I will repair it. It’s the least I could do for her, after everything.”

Ivar sobs into his chest. Floki resumes stroking the young man’s hair back. “Ivar, the Boneless. Scourge of the world. You don’t need me.”

_You will be great, Ivar. I believe in it like I believe in our Gods._

↡

The day Floki and Helga leave, all the remaining Vikings are there to send them off. They load the boat with as many supplies as they think they need and then some at everyone’s insistence.

Floki is nearly as beloved as Ragnar for his inventions and boats.

Ivar sits on a stump and his brothers stand beside him by the dock, in front of the silenced crowd. “You were planning to leave without telling us, Floki, huh?” Ubbe says.

“I wanted to spare you the trouble of trying to stop me, and I knew Ivar would have probably told you anyway.”

“He did.” Hvitserk smirks at their long-time family friend who perhaps loved Ragnar more than any of them. “But we will anyway.”

“And you can’t.” Floki says, helping his wife unto the boat who smiles at him for the first time in weeks. Turning back to the young men, he stretches his arms out as he approaches them. “So let us just say farewell properly instead.”

Sigurd shakes his head at Floki’s antics. “Where are you going?”

Floki lowers his arms but keeps walking. “Wherever the gods will take us.”

He stops in front on Ubbe who looks so much like Ragnar it almost hurts. “But as long as I live and breathe, you, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, will always be close to my heart.”

Floki presses his forehead to Ubbe’s and he remembers Ragnar. “Farewell, Floki.” He says seriously.

“You are the greatest boat builder of all time.” Ubbe continues, slapping the back of his bald head.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Floki replies, thinking of the huge boat that Ivar and his new friends came in on. It is true, nevertheless, that he is gifted in this. He has been instrumental to the rise of Ragnar Lothbrok and their people.

He goes over to Hvitserk to give him a strong hug. “Farewell, Floki. Beloved by the gods.”

He does the same with Sigurd. “Farewell, Floki.” The boy who avoided his younger brother as much as he could, therefore Floki as well.

“Your hair is looking much nicer these days.” Floki jokes at him as he ruffles Sigurd’s hair. “Maybe you ought to thank your brother’s wife for it.”

Sigurd laughs and it suits him much more than anger or spite.

He stops in front of Ivar who refuses to look at him. “You knock-kneed fool.” Ivar begins and Floki knows this is just another of their terms of endearment. “Stay.” He pleads one last time.

“We need you just as much as our father needed you. I still need you, but instead you but instead you choose to run away, you coward.” Ivar says, smirking at him.

Floki hears the underlying message in his words though. They’ve always spoken antagonistically to each other.

Floki smirks right back at him. “Stand up and say that to my face.”

They smile at each other, about to laugh. Floki goes over and hugs him, one last time. “You’ll do great, Ivar.” He whispers into his ear.

With that Floki returns to his wife on the boat and they start rowing towards the open seas.

People all around them call out blessings and well-wishes. They cheer his name and as their voices fade away, he looks to his wife. His sweet, loyal, Helga who looks so tired but still smiles for him today. He promises he will put the spark back in her eyes even if it kills him.

_ WESSEX _

Bishop Heahmund rides through the deserted villa’s open gates with a small crew of men. They have heard reports that the Vikings have left this place already, but one can never be too careful when dealing with these heathen savages.

Most of the place is miraculously intact, save the burnt down church. “This place is full of ghostly memories.” He hears one of his men remark.

“God help those who did this.” He rasps under his breath. Turning to his men, he issues an order. “If King Ecbert’s body is here, let us find it. Spread out!”

“Yes, Your Grace.” They reply and ride off in different directions.

Heahmund goes for the main keep first. The throne is gone, but otherwise the place is untouched. On the small table beside where it should be is a chess board, with only the white’s king left on it, toppled and its head cut off, lying at its feet.

One of his men enters behind him. “Your Grace, I’m afraid we’ve not seen the body anywhere. Do you think it is possible that they have burnt it?”

Heahmund turns his head slightly to address the man. “It is possible, yes.” He sighs but continues. “We must reconsecrate this place, despoiled by the heathen barbarians.”

He gestures over at one of his men, the fastest rider in the group. “Tell the people who fled from here that it's safe to return.”

The man bows and responds. “Yes, Your Grace.” He swiftly exits the room.

Heahmund kneels on the raised dais and bows his head in prayer. “Ecbert, our martyred king, hear my prayer. Let the wrath of God fall upon these heathens who desecrate the holy places of our land.”

Heahmund kisses the ground in front of him. “Let them suffer at our hands. Slaughter them in battle. Cut them down like the ears of corn at harvest. Let us rejoice in their ruin and drive them back into the sea from whence they came. And let God's holy church arm itself against these worshippers of the devil.”

He lies belly down on the floor now as he whispers the rest of his plea. “And let this war never end, until not a single pagan lives or breathes. Ecbert, martyr, hear my prayer. Hear my prayer. Hallelujah.”

↡

Slowly, the residents of the villa arrive in groups. It is not until a fortnight after that the royal family returns as well.

_ VIKING CAMP NEAR YORK _

Ivar and his brothers scout the place themselves. They see the large town with the stone houses and high walls. Not as tall as Winterfell, but taller than the ones in the Wessex villa. Northern towns are usually better defended against Viking attacks from further north.

“York. Look at her.” Ivar smiles in excitement. “So ripe for plucking! And they don't even know that we're here.”

He turns to his brother who have joined him belly down on the ground. “I say we attack tomorrow before they find out.”

Hvitserk agrees with him. Ivar thinks he has a favorite brother now. “Yes.” Even Sigurd hums in agreement.

“Wait.” Ubbe says. “I remember something our father said.”

They stay silent and allow their older brother to explain. “It was always better to attack an English town when they are celebrating one of their Saint's Days. On those days, most of the people will either be in church or they will be drunk.”

Ivar and his brothers nod in agreement. Sigurd is the one who asks, “So how do we find out?”

Hvitserk spies two kids playing in a creek and calls his brothers’ attention. “We'll find a way.” He smirks.

When they return to camp and Ivar tells his wife the plan, she throws one of her combs at him. The bump is now slightly more noticeable. She’s gotten feistier and he doesn’t want to say that it’s because of her condition, but it definitely is. “You want to kidnap children?!” She shouts.

“No, wait Sansa-“ He tries and fails to placate her.

“Absolutely not!” Sansa looks around for something else to toss at him.

“But, dear, we also need sacrifi-“

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” She screams. She takes deep breaths and rubs her temple with one hand and her nose bridge with the other. “Ivar, I am pregnant, and you want to sacrifice children?” She sits down heavily on the cot.

Ivar sighs and goes to kneel by his wife’s legs. “Okay, okay. We’ll find another way.” She looks up at him doubtfully. “I promise there will be no sacrificing children.”

↡

When he tells his brothers the news, they are not happy. “Just lie to her! Gods, we don’t need approval from your damned wife, Ivar.” Hvitserk yells at him.

_Okay, minus favourite brother points for you._

“Well, what else can we do, Ivar?” Ubbe asks constructively.

“You send me.” Arya says. They hadn’t noticed her presence in the room at all, but she’s been pouring their drinks the entire time. “And I don’t suggest you ever lie to my sister.”

“What will you do?” Ubbe asks her, just going along with her sudden appearance.

Arya sits on an empty seat by the table. “Oh, I like that. What _will_ I do instead of what _can_ I do. You get points for that.”

She puts her legs up on the table and leans the chair back precariously. “I’ll give you your information.” Ubbe leans forward and nods, agreeing to her plan.

“But,” She raises a finger. Ubbe stops nodding. Hvitserk and Sigurd lean forward curiously. “You have to promise that the people inside the church will not be harmed.”

His brothers look affronted at the request. That is not the Viking way. Ivar tries to explain it to his sister-in-law. “Arya, we-“

She cuts him off with a sharp look. “No, there is no negotiation. I am not in the habit of killing innocents, and neither should you be. You want to deal with these Saxons civilly then you’ll have to show them you’re not just heathen savages. That you can match their code of conduct, even surpass it.”

Ivar throws his support behind her. “I agree with my sister-in-law.”

Ubbe takes a few more seconds but nods in agreement, and when he does, Hvitserk and Sigurd do as well. “Fine. We agree to your terms, but if any of them come out brandishing weapons then their lives are forfeit.”

“Deal.” She stands and goes to leave the tent. “Their next feast day will be in three days.” She announces as she pulls open the tent flaps. “Attack mid-afternoon, there is a special blessing for women and children that will keep them in the church longer on the day itself.”

Before she leaves, she turns around to look at their shocked faces. “I’ve had to entertain myself some way since we’ve been camped here a week. And what better way than to explore new places and meet new people?” She laughs at their astounded expressions, finally making her exit.

↡

“It’s fine, Sans. They’ve agreed.”

“Thank you, Arya.”

“No problem. Just don’t name this little one after me, okay.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need a younger, taller Arya running around the place.”

“...”

“People might start calling me the short Arya to differentiate.” Arya shudders at the prospect.

“...Does the height thing bother you at all?”

“No...No. Can’t say it does...”

“....okay, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's OOC, but it's my delusion HAHAHAHAHAHA


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> York

_ RIGHT OUTSIDE OF YORK _

The army gathers its strength right outside of York’s walls. The town is silent save for the sound of the church bell tolling. The residents have no idea what’s about to happen.

No alarm has gone up, but they can spy the bobbing helmed heads of the watchmen from where they make temporary cover in the trees. Ivar and Hvitserk lead the second wave while Ubbe and Sigurd lead the smaller charge that will go first.

Ubbe and Sigurd lead two dozen men right up to the walls. From a few feet away, archers cover the battlements just in case any of the watchmen take a peek over their walls. Ubbe’s men prop up 3 siege ladders and silently make their way up.

One man takes a peek looking dazed, but he opens his mouth to shout. “Northme-“

He is interrupted by an arrow to the shoulder which shocks him enough for an ascending Ubbe to pull him over the wall.

The guards scramble, but none of them are prepared for an attack. Their archers take position at the battlements and try to shoot down as many Vikings as they can, not at all noticing the larger reserve of Vikings in the forest.

Ubbe climbs over the wall and is immediately greeted by a sword swing trying to take his head off. He ducks under it and swings his axe at the man’s exposed nape in response. The man goes down, and Ubbe slams his axe into the man’s back, just in case.

Ubbe and two of his men make their way down the stairs. A guard running up tries to stab him through the stomach, but Ubbe has the high ground and easily parries it with the shaft of his weapon and slams the man’s head into the wall. The helmet caves in at the force. And Ubbe continues his way down. Stepping over the man’s dead body.

The watchmen’s numbers dwindle and soon they are eliminated in their entirety. Ubbe and Sigurd’s men make their way down to the doors. They pass a vendor, unarmed, and simply push him aside. They remove the bar and raise the portcullis with no trouble.

All the unharmed onlookers run toward the centre of the town. Screaming and crying as they go.

Ubbe and Sigurd pull open the gates at last. With a battle cry, the rest of their army charges through. Hvitserk rides along in Ivar’s chariot as they rush in before all the others. As soon as they are in, Hvitserk jumps off to take down an approaching guard. He swings down and though the man blocks; his entire body trembles under the force. Quickly disengaging and spinning around the man, Hvitserk swipes at the man’s exposed back.

Ivar charges onward to secure the church. Ubbe follows him on foot to watch his back. Sigurd and his group run through the battlements, taking down archers that are still posted at the walls.

Vikings fill the streets like rushing water. They engage with any man in armor though they leave the unarmed men, women, and children well-enough alone.

Ivar and a small contingency of trusted men arrive at the church first and lock it from the outside. Not a moment too soon as the screams finally reach the church. The chanting inside stops and some brave souls try to push open the doors from the inside.

Ivar and his men stand guard at the doors and other entrances. The orders not to invade the church were not met with eager acceptance.

Ivar turns back to see Ubbe, a veritable twister. He swings his axe left and right and if it is blocked, though rarely, he stabs in with a sharp dagger Ivar hadn’t noticed him carrying before.

The Vikings flow around the church like a stream would a boulder. There are a few attempts to get inside, but none serious enough to merit killing their own men.

Their army runs on, securing even the small docks and ships that are filled with produce.

And just like that, York is theirs.

↡

They gather up the residents and bring them into the church. They are thoroughly checked for weapons and jewels. Those who resist are roughed up a little, but otherwise are unharmed when they are pushed into the church.

Sansa walks through the carnage. Her nose wrinkles at the smell, but she is pleased to see only armed bodies in the streets and no innocents. Ser Willem walks ahead of her slightly to check for any stragglers or traps and Podrick follows her from behind. She wonders where Arya is, she disappeared from camp before the army even left.

Sansa keeps walking aimlessly. The streets here are so cramped. She sees a little girl trembling behind some crates and signals Willem to bring the child to her. The child cries and kicks. Willem doesn’t pick her up, but he doesn’t let go either. When the child tires herself out, he gently ushers her to Sansa after giving her a gentle pat down. Can’t be too secure with the Queen now, especially given her condition.

To think, he—a baseborn bastard—being allowed to guard the Queen and her heir as it grows inside her. The honor is far too high, Ser Jonnel would surely wrestle him for the opportunity if he were here.

The child drags her feet, so Willem carries her the rest of the way. At the sight of Sansa and Podrick, her struggle renews, and he almost drops her. She kicks, but thankfully is no longer screaming.

Sansa extends her arm to the crying girl’s face but has her hand slapped away. “Shh, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The girl is inconsolable and continues to struggle. Sansa tries again. “We’re not going to hurt you. Look, the man carrying you. His name is Willem and he’ll make sure no harm comes to you, alright?”

The child seems to take it as permission and buries her face in the crook of Willem’s shoulder. Podrick and the Queen exchange amused looks, but Willem soldiers onward.

When they get to the centre, there are significantly fewer dead bodies. Hvitserk kneels by a trough, washing his face. Ubbe sits against the wall next to him. Sansa grimaces at them.

Sigurd looks longingly out to the sea from his place at the battlements.

Ivar sits on the steps of the church. More of his men guard the perimeter of it now that they’ve filled it with prisoners. More to keep the Vikings out than the people in.

Spotting his _pregnant_ wife, he gets up to greet her. She rushes into his arms. They will have to speak about her rushing about in her condition. Can’t be too careful.

She takes a scan of him and is satisfied that he looks unscathed. He smiles before he presses a kiss to her mouth and a hand to her middle. “How are you?” She breathes out.

“I’m fine.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “By orders of my wife, I was barely in any danger.”

Sansa scoffs at him and pulls his queue back lightly. “The mark of a good husband is one that listens well to the wishes of his wife.”

Ser Willem and Podrick roll their eyes at the couple. It was fine for the first few months of the courtship and the marriage, but on this trip and seeing it everyday is enough to make the two men nauseous. The little girl takes a peek at them from Willem’s arms.

“Have you seen Gendry?” Sansa asks. “He and Arya left the camp before even you did.”

“Why Gendry?” Ivar questions.

“It’s impossible to spot Arya if she doesn’t want to be spotted. Much easier to spot Gendry who trails after her like a duck. A big broad duck with a battle hammer.”

Ivar laughs hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. “I’m sure she’s fine, wife.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “I doubt there’s anything in the world she can’t handle.”

When he straightens, he sees Willem carrying a small child who flinches at the sight of him. “Sansa, dear. Who is this?”

His wife looks back at the child. “I don’t actually know.” She bites her lip worriedly. “I’ll escort her into the church and try to look for her parents.”

“You will do no such thing.” Ivar says seriously.

Sansa looks back at him with one eyebrow raised. “Yes, I will.” Before he can protest, Sansa presses a quick kiss to his lips pulling all the wind from his sails. “I’ll be fine. Willem and Podrick will be with me.”

Ivar sighs. “It’s good you didn’t tell me not to worry because I definitely will. Do you want me to come with you?”

Sansa looks him up and down then meets his eyes meaningfully. Ivar looks her up and down, pressing a hand to her middle meaningfully.

Sansa softens and kisses him one more time. “I’ll be fine, love. This shouldn’t take half an hour.”

She brushes past him followed by Podrick. When they get to the doors, one of Ivar’s men opens the doors and steps aside. Willem goes in with the child first, Sansa inclines her head gratefully at the Viking before entering as well. Podrick closes the door behind him.

“What is your wife doing now?” Hvitserk asks him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Returning a child.” Ivar answers. _She has a habit of doing that._ He thinks to himself.

“And you allowed her to do so?” Ubbe asks from his other side.

“When you’ve been married as long as I have, Ubbe,” He teases with a mischievous smile. “You learn to listen to your wife lest there be consequences later.” He wags his eyebrows suggestively.

Ubbe rolls his eyes and shoves Ivar’s head backwards in response.

↡

The church is cramped, but when Sansa and her guards enter, they still create as wide a berth for them as possible. None of the people look injured, mostly women and children, but she sees some men too. In the front of the hall stands a man in opulent white robes and beside him-

_Is that Gendry in matching robes?_

Next to Gendry stands an unassuming figure in the same robes as well. Definitely Arya.

Sansa suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, Arya would be in here, of course.

A cry goes up in one portion of the room and an old woman makes her way to the front of the crowd. “Please, that is my granddaughter. Please don’t hurt her.”

Seeing as the child reaches for the old woman, Sansa gives Willem a signal to hand her over. The old lady and her granddaughter embrace each other, crying tears of relief.

Sansa turns to the people. Most are trembling and looking around in fear. Spotting a raised platform off to the side, she climbs the few stairs there to make her announcement. Podrick stands at the base of the stairs and Willem right in front of the pulpit.

“No harm will come to you in this church. I will have supplies such as water and food brought here every day. Do not attempt to escape. Your protection only lasts until the walls of this... _sanctuary_.”

People murmur and whisper in hushed tones, but the whole place buzzes with noise. Sansa raises her hand to silence them and it takes longer than she is used to, but eventually they quiet down.

“Please, for your own benefit, stay inside these walls unless instructed otherwise by myself or my guards. Loyal men have been posted outside of these walls, not to keep you inside, but to keep others out.” She finishes and goes back down. Once in position with her guards, they exit the place. People still give them a wide berth, wary and it’s only right.

Love of the people is something that must be earned after all.

__

_ A MONTH LATER- YORK _

Most of the Vikings spend their time building up the walls. The portcullis is strengthened and the door itself is reinforced with metal as well.

Ubbe and Hvitserk walk through the town centre in search of Ivar. Sigurd and his group spend most of their time outside of the walls, hunting and scouting out other areas.

They don’t spot him, but Ivar sees them and calls them over. He sits facing forward on a chair getting a tattoo. He told them he was planning on getting one, but not even his wife knows what it is. The only people that know being him, Arya, and the artist.

“Ubbe! Hvitserk!” He tries not to flinch at a particularly hard hit. The artist must be getting tired, he’s been at it since that morning and it’s already quite late in the afternoon.

Sansa sits off to the side. She told him he didn’t need a tattoo, but he insisted, and to be completely honest, Sansa wonders what it will look like. As is, she sits in a small chair in front of him to the left. One hand holding his and the other on a cup of orange juice. She very much wants to bring some back with her. She’ll see about speaking to one of the traders in the town.

Arya and Gendry are a little further in. Arya has half her shirt off and is getting a tattoo as well. Sansa at least knows what this one looks like and thankfully isn’t spanning her sister’s entire back.

Arya’s tattoo rests on her shoulder. A snarling direwolf with a dagger in its maws. It wears a strange looking crown, like sharp teeth pointing upwards, merged completely with its head. All in all, it is a fearsome looking thing. Gendry looks excited about the new ink on Arya’s skin, and considers getting one as well to match.

Ubbe and Hvitserk walk leisurely up to the couples. They’re very thankful to Arya and Gendry as they’ve acted as their informants within the church. Quelling thoughts of rebellion and escape from within the sanctuary. Sansa insists on giving them a chance to re-integrate into the town or to be sent off to the coming Saxon army. Whichever of those options, something needs to be done soon. The number of prisoners in the church are a large drain on resources.

“Did you take a look around? The work on strengthening the defences is going well.” Ivar says, smiling through the stinging in his back.

_Think happy, pain-free-OW!_

Ubbe rubs his face, looking unhappy for some reason. “And don’t you think you should have consulted us about any of this?”

Ivar shrugs his shoulders and gets a smack from the artist for fidgeting.

“Do you think you are the leader?” Ubbe squats down in front of him to meet his eyes.

“No, I don't.” Ivar replies, rubbing his thumb over his wife’s knuckles. “Why would I ever think such a thing?”

Ubbe inclines his head, satisfied with the answer. “I'm glad to hear you say that because you are not the leader.”

Sansa rolls her eyes at the posturing going on. She thought that the problem would cease with Bjorn’s departure, but apparently not.

_Boys._

“We four brothers are the leaders together.” Ubbe continues, looking towards Hvitserk who half-sits and half-stands on a table nearby. Sigurd would rather keep his distance after the incident in the Wessex villa. “As our father would have wished.”

Ivar hums in agreement, reaching for a cup of water beside him.

“We are older than you, Ivar.” Hvitserk chimes in. “You can't push us aside. It's unacceptable.”

Ivar puts his cup down and stretches his neck enough to hear an audible pop. He restrains the urge to roll his shoulders back. Wouldn’t want the artist to mess up now and ruin all their hard work.

“No, you're right, Hvitserk.” He nods. “I should have consulted you about it, but there’s no need to worry about me trying to usurp you. I’m leaving once we’ve established a settlement here, remember?”

Hvitserk rolls his eyes, obviously suspicious of Ivar’s motives, but Ubbe listens to him and that’s what matters.

“I’m only doing what I think needs to be done, as we all are, but you two have to understand. For me to be your equal, I have to do better than you.” Ivar continues. Sansa listens intently to their conversation.

“I have to make you forget that I'm a cripple.” He ends. His wife squeezes his hand in support. He can’t feel the pain from the tattoo anymore.

“Listen, Ivar,” Ubbe speaks after a few moments of silence. “We know what you are, and we accept what you are.”

“It makes no difference to us. You are just our brother.” Hvitserk continues. “So don't try to make us feel sorry for you.” He jokes. “Because, my brother, we never will.”

It’s embarrassing, but Ivar is touched by the sentiment. Since he was a boy, he’s always been considered lesser for being a cripple. His brother would pull him behind them on his cart and that image of them pulling ahead and leaving him behind has always stuck with him.

“That-that means a lot, brothers.” Ivar says sincerely.

Ubbe leans back and sits on a nearby chair, watching workers go by. Hvitserk takes a peek at Ivar’s tattoo, scoffs and watches Arya’s get done instead.

It is comfortably silent and the sound of the tattoo artists tapping on their bone needles and ink is enough to lull Sansa to sleep where she sits.

Sigurd runs in, interrupting the peaceful scene. “There's a large Saxon force on its way here!”

Ubbe stands, ready to head into action. “How far? How large?”

Sigurd bends in half, panting and gasping for breath. “Two-thousand, maybe more. Two day’s march or less, approximately. They’re camped where we used to be.”

Ubbe curses under his breath. Their number are matched. Many of their men left after they took York, back to hearth and home.

Hvitserk stands with a groan. “Don’t worry too much, Ubbe. We’ve been preparing for this.”

Ubbe rolls his eyes. Ivar waves away the artist and stands, back still very bloody. “We have to move fast.”

Sansa stands as well, a protective hand over her middle. “I will deliver the prisoners to the camp and start initial negotiations.”

Ubbe and Hvitserk worry, are they about to watch an argument between the smitten couple? Ivar’s recent streak of overprotectiveness is no joke. Feel free to ask everyone he’s held a knife to for even speaking to his pregnant wife.

The married couple meets eyes for a few seconds, a silent argument seems to pass in a minute and Ivar sighs in defeat. Sansa smiles at him then presses a chaste kiss to his jaw then his lips before skipping off in the direction of the church.

Arya gets up as well. Her tattoo covered by a thin gauze. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get ready.”

Hvitserk looks at her in surprise. “Do you plan on going with your sister with the prisoners?”

Arya looks offended at the question. “Of course, but I meant get ready for the siege. I’m infiltrating their camp and doing a little... _information gathering_.” She gives him a chilling glare. “Are there any objections?”

Hvitserk gulps nervously. “None, at all, Captain.”

She smiles and it’s more like a baring of teeth with how threatening it looks. “Good.”

↡

Sansa walks into the church with Willem and Podrick. People still give them a wide berth, but the priest, children, and mothers are all friendly. She’s been prayed over and blessed at least once a week, which she doesn’t mind.

The priest sees her and approaches. “Your Grace, is there something the matter?”

She’s done her best to feed these people during their stay, and luckily none of them have perished or tried to escape. A few non-resident traders have already been set free to reintegrate into the town for business.

“Nothing at all, Father Gregory. I simply have an offer to make.” Sansa makes her way through the crowd and to the raised pulpit off to the side.

“People of York, a Saxon army has gathered outside of the walls. If any of you choose to stay here, you will be expected to reintegrate with the new community and go on with your lives under certain laws and surveillance. If you would wish to relocate, I will personally deliver you to the Saxon camp under a banner of peace.”

The crowd bursts into clamour at the offer. Families discuss amongst themselves what to do, and where to go.

Sansa raises a hand for silence and the crowd quiets more quickly than the first time she’d done it, used to her mannerisms already.

“Those who would like to stay, please assemble by the altar, and those who would like to leave, please arrange yourselves along the aisle, facing the doors by tomorrow morning.”

More than half will prefer to leave, but Sansa will still be thankful to the handful who would like to stay. The priest included who sees this chapel as his holy duty and cannot abandon it.

Letting the people discuss amongst themselves, Sansa and her guard make their exit. The priest escorts her out by the arm and gives her a blessing as she goes. Some people also shout out their wellwishes as the doors close.

_I will make them love me._

↡

Sansa walks back into their rooms. The sons of Ragnar have taken over the largest house in the town. It is not as big as Winterfell, barely even the size of the keep in the Wessex Villa, but it’s position near the docks of the town offer amazing views of the sea and its tall build serves as a great vantage point of the streets. The only other vantage point that could rival it being the belltower which stands right next to the church in the middle of York.

Ivar sits by the window, contemplating and watching the traps be placed in the night.

The prisoner hand-over will serve two purposes. It will remove the unnecessary drain on their supplies, and it will stall the army’s march.

“What time do you leave?” He asks without looking to her.

Sansa goes over to press her hands on his shoulders. They’re tenser than usual and she isn’t sure if it’s because of the pregnancy or the battle plan he engineered. He’s never really played the defensive before.

“At around first light.” Sansa replies, rubbing his shoulders soothingly. It occurs to her after a few minutes of silence that he had just gotten a tattoo that day and stops. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Ivar shrugs. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Sansa sits behind him, tracing an imaginary design over it. A wolf. A bird. A ship. A ram. “Can I see it yet?” She asks, humming as she draws over his shirt.

Ivar hums thoughtfully, not really listening. Sansa leans against him, wrapping her arms over his middle, sandwiching her growing bump between them. She rests her chin on his left shoulder, looking into the streets as well. “Ivar?” She murmurs into his ear. “Can I see it?”

Ivar snaps out of his daze. So many things can go wrong in the coming battle. Sansa still refuses to get on the ship, insists she’ll stay barricaded in this room with her guards.

_They cannot fail tomorrow. He cannot fail tomorrow._

Ivar turns to face his wife on his shoulder, pressing their foreheads together and shutting his eyes tightly.

_He has so much to lose._

“Ivar, love, I will be fine.” Sansa reassures him. “Your plan will work. I know it will.”

Her husband opens his eyes, gaze so blue it could rival the Vale sky on a snowy day. “It will work.” She insists. “Because my husband is a brilliant man.”

Ivar rolls his eyes at her playfully but smiles gently.

“You should listen to your brilliant wife more often.” Sansa teases.

“And how often is that?” Ivar asks teasingly.

“Always.” She deadpans.

Ivar smiles at her fully now. “You’ll get to see it if tomorrow goes according to plan.”

Sansa rolls her eyes at his stalling and corrects him. “ _When_ tomorrow goes according to plan.”

_ NEXT DAY _

Sansa leads the prisoners outside of York from the reinforced gates, bypassing the traps hidden in the smaller streets and alleys. Sansa rides astride a pale horse, between her mounted guard as they lead the procession out.

They arrive at the Saxon camp quickly. It is much closer than they thought. Very brave of these men to set up camp nearly right outside of York, so sure of their victory.

Willem waves a stark white banner to indicate peace and they are let into the camp. The previous residents of York disperse around the camp. Arya hidden among them. She’d managed to ingratiate herself with the people by crafting a vague backstory. Arya will always have a way with the common folk.

Sansa and her party dismount before being brought into a tent—the command tent presumably, given how deep into the camp it’s set up.

King Aethelwulf sits in the middle, his wife on one end and a darkly dressed warrior on the other. All the men seated are armoured, she’s caught them right before they leave camp to march for York, it seems.

Sansa curtseys to the table. “King Aethelwulf,” She greets. “I am Queen Sansa Stark of the North and I am here to represent the Sons of Ragnar in opening negotiations.”

The queen doesn’t pay her any mind. She looks troubled. King Aethelwulf stands and inclines his head to her in a gesture of respect. “Queen Stark, while we thank you for bringing us these prisoners unscathed, there is nothing to negotiate.”

His gaze turns steely and he leans his fists onto the table. “We will be driving out the heathen forces and retaking York.”

Sansa stays silent. The dark warrior-man takes a long drink from his wine cup. Aethelwulf continues.

“We have heard the reports of the bulk of the heathen forces returning back north. You do not have the men to hold York, and by delivering these prisoners to us, you have lost what little bargaining power you hold.” He smirks.

Sansa nods at his declaration. He is a man thirsting for battle though his sons look nervous and scared of the coming fight. “So be it. I only came on the small chance we could all save some time and lives. The prisoners are yours. We brought them here as a gesture of good faith, nothing more.”

Aethelwulf looks at her curiously and sits back down. The warrior-man exits the tent abruptly and even his fellow occupants looks surprised at his rudeness. The queen looks to Sansa. “I-I apologize for Bishop Heahmund, his mind seems to be elsewhere.”

Sansa smiles. “It is quite alright.” She curtseys again to the rest of the table. “If no negotiations will take place today, I will take my leave.”

King Aethelwulf waves his hand at her, as if dismissing some servant and the action makes Sansa want to gnash her teeth. She suppresses the urge and simply smiles again, turning out of the tent.

As she and her guard mount up, she spies the men in armor, carrying their long white shields with the red crosses on them. She sees the bishop saying a prayer over them, but his gaze is fixed on their party as they ride out of the camp.

↡

When Sansa leaves, the bishop heads over to his captains. “What have you learned from the prisoners?” He asks them.

They bow to him in respect. “Nothing new Your Grace. They were kept within the church the entire time.”

“One of the men corroborated our information regarding the Roman Wall, but he hasn’t seen it for himself since they were captured.”

“Is the priest serving there alive?” Heahmund asks casually, as if the answer didn’t matter to him at all.

His men nod in confirmation. “The refugees are also unscathed. They report that a few families stayed behind to begin integrating with the Vikings.”

Heahmund nods. “Then our plan is unchanged. We settle the refugees quickly and we head out as soon as possible. King Aethelwulf orders that we rush for the boats they left at the docks by the back edge of the town.”

He turns away from his men. “We will drive out these heathen barbarians once and for all.”

Bishop Heahmund returns to the royal tent once the preparations are complete and their men are ready to march. The Northumbrian’s ealdorman leads a forward charge and awaits them by the walls of York.

Before they leave, Bishop Heahmund bestows final blessings on King Aethelwulf’s sons. “Unto Thee, O Lord, do I lift up my soul. Teach me Thy path. For Thou art the God of my salvation, on Thee do I wait all the day.”

“Amen.” They all respond. Alfred grows paler by the second, but Aethelred feels his anxiety leave him. Their mother holds both of them by the napes. Her two boys are bigger than her now, and off to battle they go to avenge their grandfathers and Kings.

“My boys, you have a care for each other. And you do your duty.” She says pressing kisses to their crowns, trying not to cry.

Alfred reassures his mother. “I am sure we shall.” He looks to his brother. He knows they have each other’s backs. “Come brother.”

↡

They break through the walls easily. Some soldiers sneak over the walls using a barn in front of the wall as cover. Ivar and his brothers watch from the bell tower by the church.

The town is absolutely silent, holding its breath for the bloodshed to come.

Aethelwulf climbs on top of the wall and helps his two sons up as well.

“That’s him, Aethelwulf, King Ecbert’s son.” Ivar murmurs. “Oh, look. He brought his own sons.” He comments bitterly. He will not be able to join the fighting today, his eyes bluer than usual and that usually means he’ll break a bone if he pushes himself too hard.

“Hvitserk, Sigurd, let’s go.” Ubbe orders. Ivar won’t bring himself to watch them leave him behind. Instead he keeps watch over the Saxon forces from his vantage point.

The Saxon army assembles within the gates. Suspicious about the lack of resistance they’ve encountered. Aethelwulf examines the street ahead and decides. “We divide our forces in half.” He looks to Heahmund. “You go for the boats. We’ll serve as a distraction. Meet at the cathedral, and may God be with us.”

The army splits and Aethelwulf heads forward as Heahmund and his men take a side road. Ivar sits up, slightly worried. He’d anticipated them going for the boats again, but not with a half of their forces.

Small piles of burning hay litter the ground. Not enough to harm anyone, but enough to create a thick smoke that obscures their vision forward. Out of the fog arrows fly, taking down two-three-four-five of Aethelwulf’s men.

They raise their shields and charge forward blindly into a small tunnel. The exit in front of them is barred as soon as they enter. Windows open and archers shoot at them. Some archers position themselves on flat roofs on the opposite side.

“Move!” Aethewulf yells as some of his men go into a small alleyway. Taking a quick glance behind him to see if his sons are still following, he runs.

The men ahead fall forward in their haste. They are pierced by sharp pikes embedded in the ground. Alfred nearly follows their lead, but Aethelwulf is able to hold him back. “Alfred!”

Seeing no other choice, Aethelwulf strengthens his resolve and starts stepping on the bodies of those who had fallen into the trap. They scream and cry in pain, but their fates are sealed and Aethelwulf will not allow his sons to fall here. When he crosses to safety, he reaches hands out for Alfred and Aethelred to cross as well.

The rest of his men follow his lead. Some still falling into the trap and serving as a walkway for those who can cross.

His men fall by the dozens to more archers hidden inside the homes. Peeking out from windows at the men scrambling about in York’s small streets.

_God help us._

↡

Heahmund hears the screams of their men and makes his way around the town more cautiously. A few of their men have fallen to hidden archers, but they haven’t encountered the pit traps as of yet. Their way forward is shrouded by thick smoke. He orders a halt and raises his sword. “Lord, forgive the work I must do this day.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, arrows fly at them from the front taking down the men beside him. Heahmund stands tall, unafraid, and unscathed by the arrows flying at them. A handful of men charge forward around him and are stopped by a barricade which is raised to meet them. They push on the walls, trying to break through. Majority of Heahmund’s men stay behind him, awaiting orders.

The windows above the barricade open and buckets of pitch are thrown at the men who are too busy beating on the wooden door to notice. Heahmund watches as torches are thrown at them and they burst into flames, screaming.

↡

Chaos descends on the streets of York, Ivar notices. Heahmund’s men make their way to the docks slowly but are stopped by the barricade and fire.

They are more cautious than Aethelwulf’s men who charge through the streets and get picked off by archers. The rain of arrows won’t last. As it is, Hvitserk’s group charges to meet Aethelwulf’s men head on. Ubbe and Sigurd’s group hang back by the church to pick them off if they should be able to get close enough.

Hvitserk emerges from the fog, swinging with wild abandon. His first strike is intercepted by a shield. It doesn’t matter, he swipes again for another soldier in front of him. Blocked again.

He spins to face the two. Parrying one blow with his sword and blocking another blow with his shield. He pushes through the two, forcing them to follow. The one on his right makes to strike first, swinging downwards recklessly. It slides off Hvitserk’s own blade harmlessly and he cuts the man’s back open in punishment.

The man on his left tries to use his open stance to strike, but Hvitserk raises his shield just in time, taking a knee and thrusting his sword through the man’s soft belly.

He bounces back up quickly, and exchanges blows with another man. This one is better trained, but Hvitserk is determined. He forces the man back into a wall and as soon as the opportunity presents itself, he swings his sword through the man’s neck.

Hvitserk cuts through the Saxon men one at a time.

↡

A few streets away, Aethelwulf and his men do battle with some Vikings. Last he saw, Alfred and Aethelred were fighting side-by-side covering each other’s backs.

Aethelred charges forward to intercept a blow that would have killed one of their men, leaving Alfred open for a moment. One of the Vikings takes the opportunity to swipe at him, but Alfred turns just in time to block it with his shield. The bones in his arms rattle with the blow.

The man is undeterred and swings again and again. Meeting Alfred’s weakening shield with every blow. Alfred starts moving backwards as his struggle is noticed by more Vikings.

Aethelwulf stabs his adversary through the side. He falls.

_Where are the sons of Ragnar?_

“Come out and fight, you cowards!”

He takes a breath and looks around for his sons. He can’t see Aethelred, but he does see Alfred being backed up into a wall by three vikings. He holds his own as well as he can, but he is visibly failing. “Alfred!” He yells, calling the attention of the men beating on his son.

One disengages from Alfred to charge at Aethelwulf. Aethelwulf sidesteps the thrust and brings his blade down on the man’s back.

Another tries to help his downed friend. He and Aethelwulf cross shields. The Viking is knocked aside and Aethelwulf stabs him while he’s down.

A man with an axe runs in from his left and he barely manages to duck under the blow, pushing his full body weight against the man and following through with a deep stab to the middle. Alfred is pushed back by two more men. Aethelwulf knocks one against the wall head first, taking advantage of their unguarded backs to quickly stab the other man through as well.

He pulls Alfred away from the wall, pushes them apart just in time to swing through two approaching men. Alfred looks dazed. Aethelwulf grabs him again. “Where’s your brother?” He can barely hear himself over the noise of battle. “Where’s your brother?!”

Alfred stumbles like a puppet without strings, his gaze blank and unfocused.

↡

Ivar watches over the battlefield. Everything is going smoothly on Hvitserk’s side of things. Their weakened Saxon army doesn’t stand a chance, not when they’ve been reduced by the archers and traps.

What worries him is the other group, though their numbers steadily reduce, it isn’t enough to make him confident they won’t reach the docks, the house Sansa’s in.

“Shit.”

They’re maybe 20 minutes away from the house at the pace they’re going.

They push through another street, keeping a formation of shields over their heads and in front of them.

The lightly armoured man that leads them is miraculously unscathed though he cuts down any person in his path with ease. His blade ripples in the light like Ice Shard.

Podrick and Willem stand guard and they are skilled, but they may not stand a chance against this man. He moves like Jon does. Ivar doubts even Bjorn could beat Jon in single combat.

Arya and Gendry are still with the refugees, infiltrating the camp and gathering intelligence, so they aren’t around to protect his wife.

“Shit.”

The group pushes through two streets quickly. They’re maybe 15 minutes away now.

Ivar makes the decision then and there. Damn him if he’s not going to be able to protect his wife. He can’t wield Ice Shard right now, not in his condition. He leaves it in the bell tower and picks up a lighter weapon: a war pick that Gendry showed the others how to make. He painstakingly crawls down the tower. Luckily, his leg braces are by his chariot.

He may not be able to fight them, but he can try to herd them in the direction of the church.

Every movement of his leg stings, but he doesn’t have a choice. He doesn’t have time to strap himself into the chariot. Thank Gods and Floki for building a seat on this thing so he doesn’t have to stand.

He rides the chariot hard through the abandoned streets, avoiding the smaller faster alleyways they’ve littered with traps. He comes up on the tail end of their party, running over two soldiers and slicing through the neck of another.

“Behind us!” Someone calls. Ivar looks behind him as he leads them away from the docks. A handful of men give chase. It’s not enough. He turns a safe tight street. They hadn’t prepared this one yet, thankfully. Ivar overtakes the party. Their shields are up so he can’t swipe at anyone as he rides past.

_Shit._

As he rides ahead of them, he twists in his seat and spots the warrior-man at the head of the charge. Ivar grabs a knife from his arm bracer and tosses it through the small crack in the shield wall. It doesn’t hit the man, but the shield-bearer beside him goes down.

Heahmund looks down at the dead man beside him, offended at how close that came to being him. This heathen has some gall. It would seem cowardly and weak not to chase him down now. The arrows have stopped, and the screaming of Aethelwulf’s group has become worryingly quiet They have nothing to lose now and lower their shields for a full charge.

They will overrun these heathen savages, starting with the one on the chariot.

Ivar watches them lower their shields as they charge full speed at him. He can’t make use of the traps now, so he leads them towards the cathedral where Ubbe and Sigurd’s forces wait. Ivar rides as fast as he can. As he approaches the back of the church, he takes one last look back. They’re still following. Good.

As Ivar turns the side of the church, he looks back forward. He catches a glimpse of a Saxon soldier in front of him with a wooden plank. Ivar isn’t fast enough to duck under the swing and he catches the blow on the chest. He’s winded and he falls off the chariot.

Ivar hits the ground hard. He's hoping none of his ribs have broken or at least not pierced a lung. One of his eyes, stings and the vision there blurs.

_Please, let me go back to her._

The Saxon that knocked him off approaches him to finish his work. He pauses to smirk at his win prematurely and Ivar’s world rushes back to him.

_It’s not over yet._

He twists and stabs the man through his Achilles tendon and pulls it toward him. His pick catches on bone, and the man screams. He falls to his back and Ivar crawls over him, hammering his face in with the war pick.

He hears the calls of the other party as they round the church, running straight for him. Ivar crawls to his fallen over chariot, it will at least give his back some cover. The rain pushes the blood on his face into his eyes and his mouth. He must look absolutely mad, sitting on the ground facing them with the dead body of a man beside him, face completely bashed in and catching rain like a basin.

They stop in front of him for some reason. Their arrows and swords pointed right at him. One archer takes his shot and misses Ivar’s shoulder. The arrow imbeds itself into his chariot behind him.

He tosses one of his throwing knives at the man in response, lodging it into his neck.

He has to stall for time if he has any hope of making it out of this alive. These people look horrified at him, so he plays it up. “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”

Ivar screams it as if he himself believes it. “YOU CAN’T KILL ME!”

The men at the front line take a hesitant step back and shuffle their feet. Ivar continues. “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I AM IVAR THE BONELESS!”

Yelling it to the Gods now, hoping they can hear the prayer he hides in his words. “YOU CAN’T KILL ME! I AM IVAR THE BONELESS!”

_Please, Gods, I need to go back to her. I need to see her again._

“I AM IVAR THE BONELESS!” He yells one last time. Ubbe and Sigurd’s men rush the field.

“CHARGE!” Ubbe calls. The two armies meet like crashing waves in the middle of that small street. A few men stand over Ivar, guarding his fallen position.

Through his shield wall, he sees the warrior man, graceful as a dancer as he cuts down men left and right.

Heahmund parries a blow and pushes his opponent’s blade off in a circle. Before his opponent can recover, Heahmund slices him through the middle. His innards fall out and he makes an futile attempt to hold them back in as Heahmund quickly swipes his neck open as well.

He charges toward the crippled viking on the ground. He can and he will cut through those guards.

He marches onward, using the same manoeuvre to slice someone’s face open, unwilling to waste a single swing on these heathen barbarians. Someone tries to slip under his guard, but Heahmund blocks the swing just in time. When he goes for an upward swing to the man’s face, his opponent ducks under the blow and creates distance. Heahmund feints to the right and twists around the man, stabbing him through the back.

Ivar leans past the legs of his guards. Watching as the warrior-man, runs at one of the shield-maidens, interrupting her harsh downward swing with a thrust to the chest. His sword reminds him of Ice Shard, never dulling in the battle and moving as if it were light as a feather.

Heahmund dances under the large heavy blows of one of Ivar’s charging guards. He gets into the man’s guard quickly and easily stabs him through the armpit as he tries to swing downwards.

Another enemy, he intercepts the blow with his sword, locking their blades and forcing them to swing around in a half-circle. The man loses his footing and Heahmund pushes his body weight against the shield he raises in the other hand, sending the man stumbling.

He uses the recoil momentum of the tackle to stab through an approaching axe-wielder then swings back around to cut open the stumbling heathen’s back.

The wave of opponents never ends, but Heahmund barely tires. His God is with him.

After he cuts down a dual-axe wielding Viking, he makes eye contact with the crippled bastard on the ground.

Ivar claps his hand against his war pick. He’s impressed by this Christian. Heahmund raises his sword toward him in answer. Their moment is broken by an arrow that flies into Ivar’s leg.

Damn, that hurts.

Ivar shakes his head at it, breaks the shaft and tosses it forward.

As Heahmund makes to end the cripple once and for all, Vikings and his own men clash between them, obscuring his view of the cripple who smirks at him infuriatingly. He turns away and takes a look at the carnage around him. “Fight for your King! Fight for your God!” He calls out.

↡

Aethelwulf calls for a retreat.

They make it to the gates where a dozen mounted reinforcements come riding through. He spots his son, Aethelred, block an axe swing coming up behind him and responding quickly with a deadly swipe to the attacker’s back.

Aethelwulf beats his sword down on his own opponent. Swinging hard enough to rattle his own bones, he slides under his last swing and stabs the man through the neck as quick as he can.

When he turns back to Aethelred, it is just in time to see him go down, an arrow through the shoulder. He runs to his son and picks him up, thanking the Lord he’s still alive, only dazed. The wound doesn’t bleed much, which hopefully means it only pierced flesh and not a blood vessel. “Come on, boy. Move.” He says, supporting his son’s uninjured shoulder and helping back onto his feet.

Uthred, the Northumbrian ealdorman downs a man, but is shot through the eye right after. He falls, dead.

↡

Heahmund mounts a horse, shouting encouragements to the fighting men around him. “Oh, clap your hands, all ye people. Shout unto God with the voice of triumph! For the Lord most high is terrible.”

He is interrupted by an arrow flying into the meat of his side. Heahmund breaks the shaft and tosses it back to the cripple who continues to watch him, smiling monstrously with the blood still on his face. “God reigneth over the heathen!” He calls at the downed bastard, brandishing his sword like a cross.

“Retreat! Retreat!” The cries from the carry over to his men and they rush away from the battle, repeating the phrase as they go. “Retreat! Retreat!”

The Vikings stop cutting his men down and simply push them out of the town. Heahmund turns to glare at the savage one last time before he rides out of the gates as well. Defeated, but not for long.

A cheer goes up on the side of the Vikings. They’ve successfully decimated the Saxon forces and defended their settlement.

Ivar slumps back against the chariot and sighs in relief.

_Thank the Gods it’s over._

_For now._

He has no doubts that the warrior-man will be back, thirsty for victory and violence. He’s seen that look before, on his father’s face, his brothers’ faces, and his own.

↡

Ivar is brought back to the house to have his wounds treated. The arrow in his leg isn’t bleeding much. A good sign that it won’t kill him. Willem and Podrick let him through along with the team assisting him. They set him down on the table. He lies back and closes his eyes, tired.

A door opens upstairs, and he can hear the flurrying of skirts as his wife rushes down to see him. She doesn’t say anything yet, just presses his bloody hand to her lips. He squeezes her hand back reassuringly and opens his eyes to look into his wife’s beautiful blues.

“Hi.” He manages to groan out as the men working on his legs pull the arrowhead free.

“Hi, yourself.” Sansa replies, bringing their joint hands over her firm bump, knowing how much he loves to just hold her there nowadays.

They stay silent as the medical team finishes up and leaves them with instructions for him not to be moving about without a crutch or some other form of support for at least a fortnight. They bring him to his and Sansa’s rooms and lay him down on the bed. Sansa thanks them and leads them out. Willem and Podrick follow to guard the door.

Sansa turns on her heel to face her husband. She saw the stunt he pulled with the chariot. She had been starting to worry about needing to escape or barricade herself in her room when he started riding through the streets like a madman.

Ivar is woozy from the blood loss as the adrenaline leaves him. “How are my favourite people?” He mumbles.

Sansa feels her frustration at his actions get smothered completely. How can she be mad at him when she knows he only did it to protect her?

She lies down beside him, resting her head next to his, making sure not to put pressure on his chest or legs. “We’re fine.”

She turns to lie on her side and face him and his head lolls to the side to meet her gaze. “I was worried for you, Ivar. I saw what you did with the chariot.”

Ivar hums, his eyes nearly falling shut in exhaustion. “I would do it again if I had to. I’d do anything to protect you.”

He presses a clean hand on her bump. “Her too.”

Sansa can’t help but smile at her sweet, stupid-smart, husband. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He replies reflexively. Waiting for the kiss he is sure will follow. It does.

He allows himself to melt into the cushions and simply hold his wife from behind, keeping pressure off his injured leg. He is nearly asleep when he begins speaking again. “We won the day.” He murmurs as if it only now dawns on him completely. They didn’t just survive. They won.

Sansa hums in agreement, cradling the hand he holds over her middle with her own as she relaxes next to him.

“My brilliant wife was right.” He mumbles into her hair.

“As always.” Sansa corrects.

“As always.” Ivar concedes.

_He kept them safe. He came back to her._

_He holds his entire world in his arms._

**_Gods, let me keep it._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can, send help to the Philippines.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of York (Town)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya being badass? Yes, please.

_ YORK _

Their family meets for breakfast the day after the battle. Hvitserk looks pleased with himself. There’s a hickey under his ear, but otherwise, he is unharmed. Ubbe has a huge bruise forming on his face by his jaw. Sigurd is perfectly fine, popping grapes into his mouth like there wasn’t just a huge battle the day before.

Ivar wakes in an unpleasant mood. He’s starting to feel the pain in his legs from yesterday. Waking next to Sansa aside, his day already sucks. He’s starting to wish they brought the wheeled chair from Winterfell with them. He has his right leg propped on another chair next to him. Ivar’s entire back is bruised. Sansa couldn’t make out what the tattoo was from the canvas of painful black and blue that his back has turned into.

Sansa sits beside him munching on greens drizzled with black vinegar, oil, and orange syrup.

“We did well, brothers.” Ubbe starts, trying to put them in a better mood even though he himself doesn’t feel it.

“We?” Ivar scoffs, his head lolling back over the headrest.

Sansa rolls her eyes next to him, knowing how prickly he gets in when he’s in one of his moods. “Yes, husband. Your brothers saved your life.”

Ivar looks at his wife, overdramatically betrayed. “It was my strategy.” Ivar pouts. “And you know that.”

Sansa snorts at him and smiles at his silly antics. “You all did very well.”

“But I did more.” Ivar grumbles.

Hvitserk leans an elbow onto the table and let’s his head lean on its closed fist. “Do you have to argue about this right now?”

Ivar crosses his arms petulantly and Ubbe leans away from the table and shrugs. “I’m not arguing.” Ivar protests.

“Good.” Hvitserk says, stealing a grape from Sigurd’s bowl of assorted fruit. “Hey!” Sigurd says, smacking his hand. “I don’t know where your hands have been. Get them away from my food.”

This garners a laugh from his wife, though she tries to stifle it and disguise it as a cough. Hvitserk turns to his brother now. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He teases, wagging his fingers in Sigurd’s face and tapping his nose.

Ubbe rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers. His brothers can be so childish sometimes. He sighs and cuts in on the squabbling. “The important thing is what we do next.”

Ivar sits straighter now. “What do you suggest, Ubbe?”

Ubbe leans forward onto the table. “We have defeated the Saxons. Let’s treat with them for the land.”

Ivar shakes his head at him, but Ubbe continues. “Let’s all make peace.”

“Wrong.” Ivar tries to interrupt.

Ubbe speaks over him and resumes his proposal to his other brothers. “More of our people can cross the water. We can all farm, huh?” Sigurd nods his head thoughtfully and Hvitserk takes the opportunity to bring the bowl closer to him.

He leans back into his seat, finishing. “Now, it is time to negotiate.”

Ivar leans his elbows onto the table in front of him, annoyed at being unheard. “That is the wrong advice as always, Ubbe.” His wife gives him a sharp look, but he isn’t looking at her right now. He watches Ubbe roll his eyes at him as if he were a child, as if his strategy didn’t just win them a sound victory.

Hvitserk pushes the empty bowl forward. “So, Ivar what do you suggest?” He asks. Ubbe looks uninterested, but Sigurd is ready to hear him out.

He glares pointedly at Ubbe and the effect is a bit frightening with his one eye still bloodshot. “The Saxons may have lost the battle, but they haven’t lost the war. I would not risk sending my _pregnant_ wife in to negotiate with them, not now. They need to be the ones to open negotiations with us now that we have the advantage.”

Sigurd looks at him critically but nods his assent. “I agree with Ivar.” Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sansa look surprised at him. Sigurd takes stock of the shocked faces around him and smirks. “What?” He shrugs. “We may not be each other’s favourites, but we can agree now and then.”

Ivar swings his head around the table, smug. “See, even Sigurd agrees with me.”

Ubbe shakes his head and looks back at Ivar. “We aren’t at an advantage for long, dear brother. When the Saxons ask for aid and more reinforcements, we’ll be driven away for sure. We need to strike now, while the iron is hot so that we can get the most favourable outcome for our people.”

Ivar sets his foot back down heavily and grabs his crutch to stand. “You’re not listening, Ubbe. Fine, do what you want, but my wife isn’t going out there with you.” He says as he takes his leave and stomps back up to their rooms.

Ubbe stands to leave as well. “What do you think, Sansa?”

Sansa finishes chewing before she wipes her mouth with a kerchief. “I agree with my husband.” Ubbe doesn’t look caught off guard with her answer and he doesn’t ask her to, but Sansa explains anyways. “I can’t go with you, but if you insist on going, I can give you some starting negotiations and pointers.”

Ubbe sighs. That’ll do. “Thank you, sister.”

↡

Later that night, Ubbe drags Hvitserk over to the camp as his second. Sansa said he’d need a trusted witness behind him to guard his back.

They sneak out the gates silently on a couple of horses and nod to the watchmen on the walls. They have been told in advance to send out a party if they are not back by morning.

When they approach the gates, they stop and Hvitserk waves the torch back and forth along with a white banner that Sansa insisted they bring. Sansa had also told them to refrain from simply entering the camp on the horses, so they’ve been tied up behind the cover of a few trees.

“Halt!” A gate guard yells at them. Ubbe raises his hands in peace. They are unarmed as Sansa had insisted, only bringing 2 small daggers each hidden in their boots in case something does go wrong.

“We come under a banner of peace to negotiate a truce.” Ubbe states.

The guard looks at them questioningly.

“Bring us to your king.” Hvitserk commands and Ubbe shoots him a sharp look.

 _“Be diplomatic.”_ Sansa had said.

_This is not being diplomatic._

Instead, Hvitserk looks agitated about his rest being interrupted and brought along. Hvitserk had also agreed with Ivar, but Ubbe knew he wouldn’t say no to watching his big brother’s back.

They are brought to a tent at the middle of the camp under heavy guard. Someone announces them to the occupants before they move the flap aside and Ubbe and Hvitserk are basically shoved in.

Aethelwulf stands at the centre of a long table. Alfred and a man Sansa mentions is called a Bishop Heahmund sit beside him. A sword lies on top of the table threateningly in front of Prince Alfred. Guards stand behind them as if Ubbe and Hvitserk—unarmed—are still a major threat to their leaders’ safety.

 _Is that Gendry?_ Ubbe thinks looking intently at the guard with the bright blue eyes. The guard nods nearly imperceptibly and Ubbe has his answer.

_But how is he a part of their guard?_

Hvitserk eyes the sword on the table and crosses his arms. Heahmund bluffs a charge at Hvitserk who instinctively reaches for a sword that isn’t on his waist. Aethelwulf puts a calming hand on the bishop’s shoulder before speaking.

“You are the victors.” He says disbelievingly. “Why do you come to see us?”

Ubbe nods at his words. “We want to make peace.” He speaks slowly. “We don’t want to fight anymore.”

Aethelwulf quirks an eyebrow and stifles a smile poorly.

“We would like to negotiate for lands in East Anglia.”

The group takes some time to process the information and everything is silent. The bishop opens his mouth to speak, but instead he turns his mouth to spit on the ground beside him disrespectfully. Sansa had also mentioned his impoliteness with explicit instructions not to tell her husband about it.

Ubbe looks back at Aethelwulf, he will be the one to decide in the end, not the bishop.

“We will give you our decision first thing in the morning. Until then, you may wait here.” The king says. “Guards,” He snaps his fingers. “bring these men to a tent and provide them with some refreshments.”

They are surrounded by men in no time at all and brought out. Gendry stays behind, it’s for the best that he hears what they have to discuss so that he can tell Arya later.

Aethelwulf leans against the table as soon as Ubbe and Hvitserk leave and his shoulders start shaking in silent laughter. Bishop Heahmund takes a cloth and starts shining his sword.

“They want to make peace.” Aethelwulf says. “Take my father’s lands, Ubbe and Hvitserk.” He continues disbelievingly, walking to a seat at one end of the long table.

“Two sons of Ragnar Lothbrok.” He scoffs. “Offering to lay down their arms.” He whispers into his closed fist.

_Can we trust them?_

“They are very brave warriors.” Heahmund interrupts his musings. “We saw that yesterday.”

Aethelwulf nods without looking at him.

“We must consider their offer.” Alfred says next. “You are king now. You must make a decision which will be best for our people.”

Aethelwulf tries not to roll his eyes. He’s doing just that. He gestures for Alfred to continue.

“As a man of God, do you not advocate peace and mercy?” He prompts his father.

Heahmund raises his head to look at the prince. “Yes, of course, my prince.” He says patronizingly and sheathes his sword before getting up and walking out of the tent.

“Good.” Alfred sighs, leaning back into his seat. He does not enjoy unnecessary bloodshed. His eyes were opened to the terrors of war and battle. He does not think he will ever fit into such a scene like his father and brother do.

↡

Heahmund walks into the tent where Ubbe and Hvitserk sit. Two men go ahead of him and hold their swords to Ubbe and Hvitserk’s necks threateningly.

“A soft answer turns away wrath;” Heahmund starts speaking. He walks into Ubbe’s personal space. “but grievous words, stir up anger.”

He lowers the soldier’s sword from Ubbe’s neck and strikes his brother with a closed fist to the face. Ubbe doesn’t fall and turns his head back to the bishop with a crazed look in his eyes. The bishop punches him again, harder. Ubbe is knocked to the side and Heahmund spits on the ground in front of him.

Hvitserk struggles not to move, the sword at his neck presses uncomfortably close to breaking skin.

Heahmund turns to leave and pulls open a tent flap, pausing at the threshold to leave them with a few more words. “The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.”

Hvitserk goes to his brother as soon as the sword is removed, checking his older brother over. Ubbe’s eye is beginning to swell shut but otherwise he is fine. Hvitserk helps him up and they exit the tent with their heads held high even as some soldiers pelt them with rocks.

Outside the camp borders, they are met by Arya and Gendry, out of their disguises.

“Woah, what happened to you?” Arya asks.

“The bishop.” Ubbe grunts in reply.

Arya nods her head in understanding and sympathy. “He’s more warrior than holy man.” Arya shrugs her shoulders. “I’ll explain at breakfast. Come along now.” She says, leading them to the horses they’ve tied up.

Arya rides in front of Gendry and Ubbe and Hvitserk take the larger horse. It would be dangerous for Ubbe to ride along with his vision impaired as it is.

_ YORK _

Their party walks in just as breakfast is being served. Hvitserk grabs a bread roll and hands his brother a cup of water on the table. Sigurd lounges on a bench plucking at his instrument. Ivar sits next to his wife, drinking a chalice of orange juice; his leg braces off today as Sansa had insisted he keep the weight off his legs completely.

Ivar frowns and gestures for a server to assist his older brother. Someone comes in with a cold compress for Ubbe to press to his face.

“I know you shouldn't say, "I told you so." But I told you so.” Ivar remarks smugly.

If Ubbe could, he would roll his eyes.

“No need to gloat, husband. I’m sure their treatment at the camp was punishment enough for attempting peace.” Sansa tells Ivar warningly.

Ivar bends to his wife’s wishes as usual and backs off. He tries to hide his chuckle behind his chalice. It doesn’t work, but Ubbe is at least thankful to hear the end of his gloating.

Sigurd continues plucking blindly at his instrument and comments. “We’re lucky you got out alive.”

“So lucky.” Ivar comments sarcastically. Sansa swats at his smarting shoulder and looks at him sharply. He puts down the cup and raises his arms in a peaceful gesture. “Kidding. Of course, we’re happy you made it back—mostly—unharmed.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. That’s the best she’ll get out of him. She turns to Arya and Ivar who have seated themselves next to her. “What did you learn, sister?”

Arya tries to speak past the fresh bread roll in her mouth, but Sansa looks disgusted as soon as she opens her mouth. Trying to spare her sister a trip to the chamber pot, she closes her mouth and swallows before baring her teeth in a smile and speaking.

“The heir and the king are willing to make peace with you. They honestly weren’t aware of the bishop dismissing you like he did.” Arya reports.

“What can you tell us about the bishop?”

Gendry is the one who answers as Arya takes another bite of bread after slathering it with butter and honey. A strange combination that Hvitserk tries. It’s delicious especially when paired with Ivar and Sansa’s orange juice.

“He’s a famous warrior though technically still a man of the cloth. There are rumours about his more... _carnal_ habits for a religious man, but no one actually speaks against him.”

Arya hums in agreement. “He’s a fine swordsman, I admit. Could probably still take him though. I’d like the chance actually.”

No one disagrees with her. They have every confidence in Arya’s abilities as a fighter.

Sansa massages her nose bridge. There Arya goes, looking for a fight. “Thank you, Arya. Your request is noted.”

Ivar leans back into his seat in thought, closing his eyes and considering their strengths, their next moves. The failed negotiations don’t do much for or against their cause, but Ivar is loathe to let the bishop keep breathing. He is so obviously disdainful of them, will stand in the way of any actual negotiations, and harmed his brother. Among his many sins, he also disrespected his wife and absolutely needs to be punished for it.

She’d tried to keep it a secret to prevent him from worrying, but Willem told him as soon as they got back to camp. They haven’t spoken about it yet, but Ivar doesn’t want to upset her and plans to just let the matter slide. The bishop will get his dues. Ivar and Arya will give it to him.

_If it cannot be won with force, then it must be stolen with cunning._

_The higher the risk; the sweeter the rewards._

“We leave the bare defences up. Leave the Roman Wall unrepaired.” Ivar starts. “How do we bait them back here soon?” He asks the other attendants.

“Why soon?” Hvitserk asks.

Ubbe is the one that answers. “We don’t want to give them time to recover more men or get more assistance from other kingdoms.”

Sigurd stops his playing. “I can bring some of the boats back North.” He suggests. “Make them think we’ve quit the place, draw them back here.”

Ivar nods and looks at his wife pointedly. She isn’t staying in the town this time. He’ll tie her up and put her on her sister’s boat himself if he has to. Sansa isn’t planning on putting up any resistance to the idea. Hopefully, knowing she and the babe are safe at sea will keep him from risking himself like that again. She’ll just have to trust he’ll come back to her in one piece.

 _Like he always will._ She’s starting to realize.

“We should offer the residents the option to get on the boats as well, for their safety.” Sansa offers, placing a hand over Ivar’s.

“Good idea.” Sigurd comments. “We should take the chance to endear ourselves to these people.”

“They are _your_ people now.” Sansa corrects. “When you took this place, you accepted the people here as part of your responsibility as well.”

Ubbe nods, half-listening to the lecture. She’s told them this before. “Then that is what we will do. The boats leave two days from now. Women and children will board first. Anyone that is left behind will be expected to fight and defend this land.”

Ivar takes Sansa’s hands in his. “They can anchor 2 miles off-shore. That’s less than 3 hours away.”

“How do we signal that it’s safe to return?” Hvitserk asks, honey dripping off his fingers like molten gold.

“I might have something for that.” Arya says, leaning back to pat her flat but full belly. “I have some exploding powder from China. When mixed with a little this and a little that,” She gestures sprinkling things into a pot. “Add a little fire and... Boom!” She pops up standing for effect.

“A signal.” She ends, sitting back down and grabbing another roll. _These are really soft. Next time I see Hot Pie, I am forcing him to make me these._

Sigurd and Hvitserk look properly awed by her presentation. Gendry looks excited to be working with the substance again. Last time he did, he singed his eyebrows off and covered his entre front with soot. He hasn’t played around with it much. Arya only brought back 2 barrels of it. One for her ship canon and one for him to experiment with.

The lovebirds can’t look away from each other and Ubbe is nearly asleep on his feet. The poor guy’s face must be smarting terribly right now. Oh well, an audience of 3/6 is okay in her book.

Ubbe stands. “I’m going to try and sleep. We’ve had some long days behind us, brothers, sister, Captain... Gendry.”

They wave him good-bye and Ubbe goes up to his room. He passes by the expecting couple making googly eyes at each other.

_Oh, please. They won’t be separated for long and the distance is not that great a divide._

Hvitserk has clearly found a dalliance. Sigurd doesn’t really care about that as much.

Ubbe misses his wife in times like these.

_ MORNING- DAY OF DEPARTURE _

They’ve started loading people onto the ships since dawn. Only a few families were left behind, the others left for the Saxon camp when they had the chance, but these people stayed. Their loyalty will be repaid with protection.

Sansa had made the announcement yesterday and the people have quickly assembled in the church where they will be assisted and brought into the boats. Unfortunately, none of their menfolk volunteer to stay and fight with the Vikings, but that is fine for now.

The priest gives them one last blessing and bids them farewell for now. He is staying, but not to fight.

Sansa watches the crowd of people go, Sigurd in the lead and escorted by a small guard, Podrick and Willem included. Her guards will be back to collect her. The docks are small and only a few ships can be filled at a time.

“Bless you, Queen Sansa.” People say as they pass by. When the church is emptied, Sansa makes to leave as well and meet her husband outside. He doesn’t feel comfortable in church, so he waits for her by the steps.

“Wait, Your Grace!” The priest calls, running to her. It is quite a funny sight to see such a small man in huge flowing robes fly down the aisle at her like a friendly ghost. Sansa stops by the doors.

“In case this is the last time we will be seeing each other, the townspeople had me bless this for you.” He says offering her a strangely beaded bracelet with a thin little medallion on it. A closer look at the medallion shows that it is painstakingly engraved with the image of a cloaked woman.

_Who is this supposed to be? Me?_

The priest notices Sansa’s confusion and explains the gift. “It is a small rosary with the image of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God. It is to bless your pregnancy and motherhood.” He lays his hands over her belly as if they were imbued with some mystic power.

“May the Lord God bless and keep you and your child through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God.”

Sansa inclines her head in gratitude and thanks the man. “Thank you. I will surely treasure it as a precious gift and make sure to look after everyone on the boats. Take care of yourself, father.”

Sansa pushes open the doors to find her husband simply sitting on the steps and waiting for her. He turns to her when the doors open and offers his free arm, the other still holding a crutch. He will need a second with him during the battle. Gendry has already volunteered in order to keep Willem and Podrick with Sansa.

Arya thinks this is best as well. This way she knows he’ll keep out of the worst of the fighting.

“Shall we, my wolf-wife?” Ivar asks, opening his hand to her.

“Where are we going?” Sansa asks as she takes his hand and lets him walk them somewhere.

“I just want to walk a while with my wife. Reminds me of the first few times we’d spend time together.” Ivar muses.

They walk away from the church and take a left. They walk aimlessly in comfortable silence. People are clearing out houses and gardens, repairing the streets, cleaning up the traps, and clearing dead bodies. They avoid the messier streets. York is bustling with people. Saxons and Vikings working together to evacuate the town.

There is no guarantee that Ivar and his brothers will be victorious once again, especially with the new strategy they employ which is riskier than usual. They don’t give the Saxons time to recuperate, but they aren’t able to either. The plan hinges on the Saxon’s greed and though Sansa is familiar with the technique, she doesn’t want to risk the father of her child to any chance.

Ivar brings them to a cherry field a little bit outside of York. The field is perfumed with intoxicating sweetness and the ground is covered in fallen petals and leaves. Sansa helps her husband sit down against a tree and he helps her sit down as well. Though the bump is small, the change in weight is a little disorienting.

They must look so comical. A cripple and queen, helping each other sit down like a couple of old people.

Sansa lays her head on Ivar’s shoulder. “I still haven’t seen the tattoo, you know?” Sansa mumbles into his shoulder.

Ivar smirks with his eyes closed. “I tried to show you the other night.” He whispers into her crown. They speak softly as if speaking any louder will break the serenity of their little haven.

“I couldn’t see anything past the bruises.” Sansa pouts at his smiling face, pressing a chaste kiss on his chin.

Ivar understands the message underneath the casual talk.

_I’m worried about you._

Ivar still needs to use his crutches for at least another week. He’s obviously not at 100%, but their best chance at ending all of this is by luring the Saxons back to York.

Ivar sighs and pushes their foreheads together, gazes meeting. “I’ll come back to you.” He says sincerely. “I always will.”

Tears spring to Sansa’s eyes. Knowing he is going off to battle is one thing but letting him go off still injured is another. “Be careful out there, Ivar. I don’t want to do this alone.” She says, placing a hand on her middle. “I want our child to know their father. I-”

“They will.” He reassures her gently.

Sansa doesn’t cry, but Ivar when Ivar presses a gentle kiss to her forehead in comfort, she nearly lets a few drops fall.

“I want to go home.” Ivar murmurs. “I miss the Godswood, the people. I miss the peace most of all.”

Sansa cries at that. That even now as he makes war with his brothers, he still sees Winterfell as home. Part of her had feared that as soon as he touched home soil, a part of him would be lost to her. She would have let him go if he wanted to stay, but she thanks every God she knows of that it is not the case.

The couple stays in that little cherry field, basking in the sweet smell of spring, but their minds are full of winter.

_ OUTSIDE YORK- SAXON ARMY _

The army gathers its full forces outside of York. Only 3 days since their defeat, but they are back again. They questioned the course of action, but after receiving reports of the Viking departure and observing the quiet town for another day, Bishop Heahmund had insisted.

Aethelwulf sits astride a horse, in the front lines. “I wonder if it was wise of you to dismiss their peacekeepers.” He tells the bishop, still a bit cross with him for taking the matter into his own hands rather than waiting for his decision.

The bishop is unmoved by the remark. “They didn't come here to make peace.” He rasps. “They came here to make trouble.”

Bishop Heahmund turns to Aethelwulf and his sons. “You cannot trust them. They are heathens.”

Alfred rolls his eyes. He knows he shouldn’t but he is starting to believe this is not a true man of God. What man of God covets death above peace?

“We should retreat.” Alfred suggests, nodding at his brother who helped him hash out their next course of action.

“Let’s return to Wessex. Raise another army and leave them, for now, in possession of York.” Aethelred adds, nodding back at his brother briefly before looking to his father.

“I disagree.” Bishop Heahmund interjects. “I had a vision.”

Alfred restrains the eye roll, but Aethelred does not.

“I saw the two witnesses who are the prophets standing before the God of the earth. And if any man should harm them, fire would proceed from their mouths and devour their enemies.” Heahmund continues.

The bishop tightens his grip on the reins, his vision unfocused and his voice even deeper than usual. “And if any man should harm them, he must be killed.”

Aethelwulf side-eyes the cryptic man. “You speak in riddles, Bishop Heahmund.”

“What I saw was real.” Heahmund insists. “I saw all the dead bodies of the wicked lying in the street

of the great city, for there was no one left to bury them.”

He raises his chin and looks down from his nose at the ghost town. “And I saw that this great city was York, and all those dead bodies were of pagan Northmen.”

“Against these devils and pagans, we are the wrath of God.” The religious man end his speech.

Aethelwulf considers this. The bishop is to thank for reclaiming Wessex, but he leads and directs with the authority that should belong to Aethelwulf alone. He cannot let his pride prevent them from victory. If this experienced warrior suggests a course of action, he will have to take it with more salt than his sons’ unexperienced suggestions.

“We shall proceed together.” He inclines his head at the bishop and urges his horse forward and right to block Heahmund’s path. “For the sake of our country, for the sake of England.”

Heahmund understands the gesture and bows his head shallowly. As a holy man, his only true allegiance should lie with the Lord God, but he must also follow the laws of the land which place him below Aethelwulf. “My king.” He answers.

↡

They enter the town slowly and in formation. Archers watch the battlements and shield-bearers push forward into York. There is absolutely no resistance to be found. There are a few uncovered traps, but without the fog of panic, those traps are easily avoided.

Rats crawl all around the now filthy streets. There are no bodies like Heahmund described, but the lack of people around is telling.

_They have left and taken the residents who remained back as slaves in order to not leave empty handed._

They make their way to the church. Before entering, Heahmund genuflects and makes the sign of the cross, fearing the worst desecration awaiting them inside.

Two soldiers push open the doors and they find everything as it should be. The priest praying in front of his altar, the cross still standing, and the windows, walls, and doors still intact.

“...In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen” The priest says, getting up from his kneeling position of the floor and placing a kiss on the altar in front of him.

“Welcome.” The priest greets. “I am Father Gregory.”

Aethelwulf and his sons enter followed by Bishop Heahmund. Alfred genuflects and performs the sign of the cross once he has crossed the threshold of the church and presses the priest’s knuckles to his forehead.

“Bless you.” Father Gregory mentions instinctively at the action.

Aethelwulf turns to the priest after completing a cursory examination of the room. “Father...” He doesn’t know which questions to ask first and simply settles with: “ _how?_ ”

The father nods in understanding. He knows how fortunate he is to be alive and his place of worship unharmed. He has heard the reports of seaside monasteries being massacred and desecrated.

“We were locked inside here as soon as they came. All our soldiers were killed, but they called this holy place a _sanctuary.”_ The priest looks around the walls. “They delivered us food and water every morning and after a while they asked us to choose.”

“Choose what?” Bishop Heahmund asks suspiciously, hand curling around the hilt of his sword.

“Whether to stay or to leave.” The priest answers a bit fearfully. “The-the next day, Queen Sansa escorted those who chose to leave out of the town.”

“What happened to those that chose to stay, Father Gregory?” Alfred prods, genuinely curious about why they chose to stay and what was done with them.

The father takes some time to think, opens his mouth to answer and then closes it. “They went back to their homes. I, myself, decided to stay here. A few days after your battle, people started evacuating. The previous residents were brought along as well and put into boats by the docks. They sailed away yesterday afternoon.”

“And they simply left you here?” Bishop Heahmund makes to advance on the suspiciously unharmed man, drawing his sword out of the sheath threateningly. This man cannot be a true man of God, not when he allowed the residency of heathens in this place without any fight.

King Aethelwulf pushes him back and places a warning hand on his arm. “We praise God for your good fortune, Father Gregory.” He tells the priest reassuringly.

“Order the rest of the men into the town. We’ll do a final sweep of this place before we allow the people back.” Aethelwulf orders his sons before heading out himself.

Bishop Heahmund heads to the altar and the cross in the front of the church to pay his respects and get a feel of the place. The priest retreats into his rooms for a while to read. Without the people, the church is very much just like any empty house.

↡

The streets are crawling with Saxon soldiers. They’ve checked the place top to bottom but there aren’t any people left in the town other than the priest. Which is suspicious in and of itself. No one can confirm the man’s identity, but Aethelwulf and his sons have taken the statement as the bare truth. Heahmund doesn’t.

He sticks to the priest and watches him for any suspicious behavior, but the man only goes about his duties and reads. A little before 6 in the evening, the sun begins its slow descent past the horizon and the priest makes hi way up the belltower.

Heahmund follows him and waits one flight of stairs beneath as the priest rings huge brass bell.

It takes a while because of the altitude and the sound of the bell, but the yells and sound of clashing of swords makes its way to him. he looks out the window to the ground below. Northmen seem to be crawling out of the ground and attacking their unprepared troops.

Heahmund sees red and climbs the last flight of stairs to the bell.

“You traitor!” He yells grabbing the surprised pretend-priest by the chest of his robes. “You would work with these pagans?!”

“Wha-what do you mean, Bishop?” He asks as he is trying to pull the crazed bishop’s hands off of him.

“Don’t lie to me!” Heahmund yells. He holds the priest out over a window to see the carnage blossoming below. “Look!”

The priest trembles in his hold, before another poisonous lie can escape his treacherous mouth, Heahmund speaks again. “Pray you at least slow one of them down, _father._ ” Heahmund spits menacingly. He lets his grasp on the man loosen and lets gravity do the rest.

He doesn’t turn to check the man’s fate and heads down the stairs to assist his men.

↡

After final checks, King Aethelwulf makes the announcement to thunderous applause. “We have delivered York from the pagans!”

Their men cheer as Aethelwulf and his sons parade the streets followed by their captains. Some men are passing around caskets of wine or ale in celebration.

Heahmund could not deign to leave the church and the priest he so suspects of being a Northman for no reason other than the lack of harm he experienced while York was occupied.

The sun starts to set and the bell tolls right on time to signal it, the end of the day, a day of victory for the Saxons.

All of a sudden, the streets open up and archers climb out of the ground. They immediately start shooting on the unsuspecting and shocked soldiers. A yell goes up from behind them and in front of them.

Aethelwulf and his sons unsheathe their swords, ready for battle though they no longer have their shields.

At such close range, the arrows easily find their marks and pierce even shields. Their men fall.

“Father!” Alfred calls, looking at the path behind them which begins to flood with Vikings.

A battle cry echoes from underneath them. They feel it more than hear it. The overall effect is hellish, and their men begin to lose morale.

The shield wall finally forms in front of Aethelwulf and they start pushing backwards. One by one, men fall to the close-range shots. The soldiers surround their king and open up a small side street for their escape.

Once they exit into a larger space, they are set upon by a troop of filthy heathens. Aethelwulf bashes the one closest to him against a stone wall hard enough for his skull to cave. The man slithers down the wall and leaves a trail of blood from the point of impact.

The soldier that charges to support the king is blown back by a thrown spear which impales the man all the way through and leaves him slightly propped up on the ground like a morbid easel. Aethelwulf loses his sword in the chaos.

He ducks under the wild, uncoordinated swings of an axe and is able to wrestle the weapon away from the man. The Viking pushes him up against a wall as a price for his distraction. Aethelwulf strikes him hard across the face, so much so that his knuckles sting.

The man is only enraged by this and in a move that catches Aethelwulf off-guard bashes his head forward against Aethelwulf’s face. His teeth rattle at the contact and he can hear the audible crack off his nose breaking.

Aethelwulf uses the man’s disorientation from the move to switch their positions. He knees the man in the solar plexus, and he goes down. Aethelwulf grabs a rock from beside the man’s head and bashes his skull in.

He turns just in time to grab an axe coming at him. He uses his grip on the weapon and sidesteps to put the wielder on his back. He kicks the man’s face in and wrenches the axe out of his hands. Unwilling to take any more chances, Aethelwulf swings hard into the man thrice, hitting him in the chest and face.

Hvitserk spots the king and advances on him confidently, armed with only an axe. Aethelwulf sees him as well and pushes off the shield wall behind him to charge. “Come on!”

Hvitserk tries to get him with a swift downward swipe of the axe, but Aethelwulf bats it away over his head. Hvitserk recovers the momentum quickly and punches the king hard across the jaw. Aethelwulf stumbles back but is able to deck Hvitserk in the face with a jab.

They move apart as Hvitserk is accosted by a Saxon soldier who he pushes into corner and easily lodges his axe into the man’s neck. Aethelwulf disposes of his opponent a split-second faster and uses the opportunity to put all his weight into a swing to take of Hvitserk’s head.

Hvitserk ducks and beats his face with the side of the blade. A cut opens on the side of Aethelwulf’s face, but he’s not down yet.

Aethelwulf takes a page out of Hvitserk’s book and uses the returning momentum to deliver a punishing left hook to the face. Hvitserk stumbles back and is boldly tackled by another Saxon. He cuts that one down in two passes, but by then he’s lost sight of the king.

_Shit._

↡

When Ivar climbs out of the sewers with Gendry by the church, he immediately spots the crumpled body of the priest his wife was so fond of lying a few feet away. His opulent robes stained slightly with blood and his gaze open looking to the heavens with a blank and gaze. Sansa is not going to be happy about this.

Out of the bottom of the belltower, Heahmund meets eyes with the crippled heathen. He uses a crutch now and stays in the back lines, throwing knives and protected by a big man wielding an intimidating looking hammer that would look more in-place at forge for giants.

He swings it around with practiced ease, but he doesn’t stray far from the cripple.

Heahmund heads for the front gate, commandeering a horse from someone on his way there. Some men are pinned to the door while the others form a little shield wall against the Viking archers surrounding them.

Ivar and Gendry move forward steadily. They have a mission, and that is to find the two princes.

_Leverage._

They come upon Alfred as he is about to be crushed by a mountain of a man wielding one of the hammers Gendry had taught them to make. Ivar throws a knife into the man’s eye. The people have been instructed not to kill the two princes, was that too hard to understand?

Gendry helps the winded boy up and Ivar knocks the hilt of one of his blades against Alfred’s head to render him unconscious as Gendry hands the prince over to one of their faster runners to bring to a separate location to watch and guard.

_Now, for the other o-_

“Alfred!” A young voice yells, trying to run after their runner. He is no match for the man’s speed even with the added weight of an unconscious prince, but Ivar will not take any chances. He tosses a knife at Aethelred’s leg and he crumples to the ground in pain. It isn’t bleeding much, which is a good sign he hasn’t accidentally killed the kid.

“Can you escort them?” Ivar asks Gendry over the struggling prince’s prone body.

Gendry looks at him questioningly. “I’m not so sure Sansa would like that.” He replies.

Ivar shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

Arya melts out of the shadows behind him to run her thin sword through an approaching man’s throat. She slinks over to Gendry to smack a comforting hand on his chest. “He’ll be better off with me anyway, you big wuss.”

Gendry rolls his eyes at her and bends over to pick up the protesting Aethelred like he’s nothing. “Whatever you say, milady.”

Arya quickly disarms the prince when he tries to stab Gendry with a hidden knife in his arm brace. Arya looks bored. “Hurry along now and try not to get lost, you big oaf.”

Gendry smirks down at her and turns to follow their runner. He is surprisingly quick.

(Quick enough to run from a random frozen lake in the land of Always Winter to the Wall in no time at all.)

Arya laughs at how he looks then smacks his ass as he goes before she turns to follow her sister’s husband in looking for that Bishop Heahmund warrior-man.

They hear him before they see him. Somehow, he has once again found a horse to ride on as he bolsters the men with religious proclamations while cutting down anyone who can get past the shield wall.

“Men! Fight on!” He yells canting his horse towards the weaker side of the little protective circle they have set up. “Hold!”

One of the Vikings jumps above the wall with a boost from another man’s shield, but Aethelwulf easily cuts him down. “Let every soul be subject to a higher power!”

Ivar climbs the steps to the empty battlements with Arya. Two more Vikings flank them for extra protection. Arya bristles at the gesture but remains silent.

“For there is no power but that of God!” Heahmund proclaims. It seems impossible, but his men hold their little circle very well with the shield wall. The Viking onslaught is uncoordinated and messy. There is no progress on either side.

“Hold the wall!” Heahmund demands.

Ivar waits a little longer, but when another man makes it through the wall only to fall to Heahmund’s blade immediately, he decides enough is enough. Arya stands next to him, shaking her head and crossing her arms.

“SPEARS!” Ivar commands. As if remembering their drills, the Vikings pull backwards as one. The Saxons step forward instinctively. Some stumble, surprised at the lack of resistance ahead of them.

The Vikings ready their spears and as one, launch them into the shield wall. They break through and majority of the protective circle of soldiers is collapsed. The remaining soldiers are easily picked off by the rest of Viking horde.

Ivar chuckles at the effectivity. Arya was really on to something when she suggested this manoeuvre.

Heahmund charges forward on his horse, easily knocking aside a shieldmaiden. She is down, but not dead. She tries to stand back up, but Heahmund tramples her underneath his horse’s hooves. Even Ivar looks away from the sight.

On Heahmund’s next pass, two archers shoot arrows into his horse, causing it to fall and Heahmund along with it. Arya taps him on the shoulder twice and begins making her way into the throng of people. “Stop fighting!” Ivar orders.

Heahmund claws out from under the horse and grabs his blade, swinging wildly. He is completely surrounded by Vikings now.

“Make way for the Captain!” A call goes out from the men by the base of the battlements. People step aside and Heahmund readies to face his next adversary.

It takes him a while to process that the small girl with the thin sword that prowls up to him is the one. Still, he readies his sword as she points hers at him with one hand. Her body angles to the side and makes a small target even smaller. No matter, Heahmund only needs one blow to land to end this little girl playing warrior.

Heahmund twists the blade in his hand. Thrusts would not be very effective though she has little hope to parry with her needle of a sword. She is simply too small a target to attempt.

Heahmund strikes first. He makes a downward swing to her exposed middle. To his surprise, instead of moving back or sidestepping, she weaves under the blow and steps forward, creating a shallow cut in his inner thigh with her sword.

She recoils gracefully back into her starting position and Heahmund advances, striking downward to cut the little girl in half. She parries the blow strangely. She lets it hit her strange guard and the blow slides off as she retreats.

Heahmund thrusts instinctively, but she quickly drops to one knee and stabs through his side. A clean cut.

Heahmund uses his height and her smaller stature to his advantage, striking heavily at her back. She dodges the blow by just a hairsbreadth by ducking forward completely and turning on her back. He makes to stabs downward and impale her exposed belly, but in an impressive display of agility and flexibility she brings herself to stand in one hop.

Before she can fully recover, Heahmund swings at her face. Her dodge is not as graceful this time as she leans back to avoid it. She doesn’t miss the entire thing and earns a cut to her chin. It bleeds freely but she simply smirks.

Heahmund keeps advancing, forcing her to stay on the defensive and keep dodging. If she intends for him to tire himself out, she has another thing coming. Heahmund has never felt fatigue in battle, not when his God is behind him, fuelling strength to his blows.

His strikes aim for her head and she blocks and dodges as she always does. Duck under one swing, let his blade slide off hers. Twisting and flowing around his strikes like a particularly annoying stream.

She kneels quickly under one swing, twisting backwards riskily to strike the back of his knee. Heahmund hammers his sword downward, but she dances out of the way and stands back up.

She swings her sword around herself arrogantly and they continue. Around them, the Viking horde remains silent.

Bored of the dance, Arya decides to block his next swing stronger this time. His weight behind every blow is no small thing and Arya feels her arm nearly buckle and fall. She grits her teeth and pushes with her legs as well as her arms. Her entire arms shakes with the effort and so does his.

She abruptly sends her own sword flying by letting it go and slithers into his space, grabbing his sword arm and pulling further downwards. It pulls him out of balance, but it is not enough to down him, not until she twists further and kicks his legs out from under him, producing a blade from the arm she’s kept behind her the entire time and holding it to his throat.

It happens in a blink of an eye, but Heahmund feels the sharp bite of the blade at his neck and throws his sword down in defeat. Vikings approach him, one on each side as they take hold of his arms. The girl picks up his and her sword then turns to the battlements. Heahmund does as well.

She bows and extends her arms, a sword in each hand like a performer. The cripple he has learned is a son of Ragnar, Ivar, the Boneless, mimes tipping his hat to her and bows as well, smiling proudly all the while.

Heahmund starts being dragged away, screaming all the while. “HEATHEN!”

The Vikings around him laugh amusedly, when all he gets in response is a yelled, “Christian!”.

They drag him through the streets. Heahmund will not walk and make it easier for these savages. He is brought to a small shanty by the docks, guarded only by one small man and one big one carrying a hammer, Ivar’s earlier guard. They escort him inside and tie him up, a shackle on each arm and one on his neck as if he were a dog. When his captors leave, the sound of shuffling alerts him to someone else’s presence.

“Bishop Heahmund?”

The bishops cranes his head as much as the collar will allow. The speaker was Prince Aethelred, and he holds an unconscious, but breathing Prince Alfred against him.

He knows it with all surety.

_They’ve lost._

↡

Aethelwulf feels himself get yanked back from the man he was currently grappling with. He rounds on the new assailant, ready to throttle them. It is Mannel, Judith’s cousin and the leader of their reinforcements.

_Much help they were. I lead them straight into another slaughter._

“Sire, you must leave!” Mannel shouts over the din swords clashing. He turns to strike down a Viking running at them. “You must run!” He turns back to Aethelwulf.

“No!” Aethelwulf protests. “I would rather die!” He snarls.

Death on the field would at least return him his honor rather than returning home defeated by these heathens once again.

A soldier beside them dies after intercepting a blow meant for Aethelwulf. The enraged king turns to them and brutally swipes at their neck.

“You are king of kings! You need to survive this or all England is lost.” Mannel insists, grabbing hold of the scruff of Aethelwulf’s armor.

Aethelwulf takes a look at the massacre around him. They’ve been defeated again and it is time to cut their losses. “You’re right.” He sighs, grabbing hold of Mannel’s shoulder to drag him through a clearer street.

Mannel shrugs off his hand and turns to him, blood-soaked from head to toe. “You lead. I’ll follow.”

Aethelwulf nods to him before they are separated by a group of Saxon soldiers to guard their king’s retreating back.

“Protect your king!” Mannel shouts. “DIE LIKE MEN!”

Mannel feels a heavy blow on his back. He doesn’t let it faze him and turns around. Swinging his sword wildly. Someone comes in from his right and he grabs hold of their sword arm before they can complete the arc to lop off his head. Mannel thrusts his own sword through their chest.

Before there is even time to breathe, he hears someone rush up from behind him. He dodges back from the swing of an axe and nearly stumbles on a dead body on the ground. He rights himself and blocks the next blow, hooking the axe head with his blade and sending his opponent’s weapon to the ground. Disarmed, he makes a decisive swing at the man’s exposed belly. He doesn’t have time to watch them die, but with a wound like that, death is an inevitability.

He hears the wild cackles of someone approaching and comes face-to-face with one of the Sons of Ragnar. Hvitserk swings wildly and swiftly. Mannel parries one blow, then another. They are at an impasse, simply exchanging blows, blocking, and dodging until one of them slips up.

Mannel feels a sharp bite to the inside of one of his knees and it crumples, bringing him down with it. He turns to see the axe-wielder he had disarmed on the ground and the axe still embedded in his leg.

Hvitserk laughs with a crazed look in his eyes at Mannel’s agony before thrusting his blade into the man’s exposed neck to end his suffering. He inclines his head at the dying man behind Mannel in thanks before running off in search of another fight.

↡

Aethelwulf escorts one of his injured men back into the camp, toward the healing tents that are flooded with people. All the cots are filled with men in varying states of distress, some of them share cots, there simply is no space to spare.

Judith lends her assistance in stitching up some of the men. She is nearly as drenched in blood as the rest of them. Her hands are steady as they pull needle and thread through flesh. She tries not to let the loud cries from a few beds away distract her from her task. Sometimes, Judith feels like she can tell just from the sound of a man’s cries whether he will live to see another day or not.

She ties of the stitch and cuts the thread with a small blade before getting up and leaving her remaining tools in a tray by his bedside. The man has since fallen unconscious from the gruesome sight of someone sewing up his own arm.

She spots her husband helping one of the men down onto a cot. She taps him on the shoulder gently, wary of startling him when he is still in the mindset of battle. “What happened?” She gasps out.

Aethelwulf’s gaze is worryingly blank. “Aethelwulf,” She repeats. “What happened?”

Her husband shakes his head and snaps out of his stupor. His speaking is a bit slurred, but Judith gets the gist of it. “They surprised us.” He stumbles away from her. Judith follows. “They were hiding.”

Aethewulf sits himself on a seat to catch his breath and Judith stands back up to look around. A stone forms in the pit of her stomach.

_Where are her sons? Where is Mannel?_

She spends a bit more time trying to push the rising panic down and scan the crowd. Hoping against all hope that they are just with the stragglers left behind, not dead in the streets of York. When the last of the army trickles out and the gates of York close, she can no longer deny it.

_They’re dead._

She rounds on her husband, enraged. “Where are my sons?!”

It is a testament to how exhausted everyone is that no one turns to them at her exclamation. Aethelwulf’s head shoots up and he scans the crowds as well. He won’t find them.

He stands up and Judith rushes at her husband, beating on his chest and sobbing uncontrollably. “Where are they?! Where are my boys?!”

Aethelwulf holds his wife, allowing a few tears to fall. He has not only failed as a king today, but as a father as well.

“I though that God had at last seen fit to be merciful onto us, and forgive us.”

He recalls his loss in battle by Repton, the loss of his father and their kingdom, their time in the swamps with Alfred’s sickness, their defeat in York the first time, and now this. They have suffered another defeat and have lost both of their sons for it with nothing to show.

“I was wrong Judith.” He cries against her hair. She is the only family he has now, even though they’ve failed each other and hurt each other so many times before. They are the only ones they can cling to.

“I was wrong.”

He is not sure he can survive the pain along with the shame, but for her he promises to try.

_ YORK _

A bright red flare goes up the night of their victory to signal the boats home. They celebrate another win, but Ivar just wants to see his wife again. He begrudges even the few hours more they’ll be separated.

In the time between their arrival, he has the prisoners transferred to a more secure location; for now, the church will have to suffice. Their prisoners are shackled to the pillars, but other than the wounds that they had received in battle, they have not been harmed. Ivar has already sent for a healer to see to the boys and the bishop, but the bishop will only be treated if he proves himself to no longer be a danger to who they send. So far, he’s only been getting more unruly.

Arya, Gendry, and Ivar make themselves comfortable back at the house. Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Sigurd see to the feast and their men, celebrating their victory, mourning their dead. They share some ale amongst themselves. Arya hisses at the pain when Gendry presses a cloth soaked in boiled wine to the cut on her chin.

“Easy!” She yelps.

Gendry rolls his eyes at her. “Next time, stop playing with your prey.”

Arya huffs and smiles, pulling at the cut on her chin. It doesn’t actually hurt that much but she can’t help but make Gendry squirm. It’s too funny. She grumbles playfully. “You take the fun out of everything.”

Sansa chooses that exact moment to enter. She has experienced this so many times before, but the rush of relief that fills her as she sees that her loved ones have all survived the most recent ordeal is euphoric.

Ivar gets up to meet her halfway as she does her best not to rush toward them. He worries far too much, but Sansa quite likes being doted on especially by someone who loves her and whom she loves in turn.

Ivar holds his wife to him gently, too scared to squeeze too hard and injure the little babe they’ve got growing in her belly. People can call him paranoid as much as they like. He won’t be allowing any excess risk to come to his wife, especially when the possibility of a difficult birth due to his congenital condition looms over their heads.

“Wife.” He whispers into the crown of her head, placing a soft kiss to her brow.

“Husband.” She smiles into the crook of his neck and burrows her face there. Breathing him in and just basking in the knowledge that he’s safe and back to her.

She steps away from him to look at him, thankfully he is virtually unharmed, and she has to thank Arya and Gendry for that. She frowns at the lack of crutch being used but decides that he gets a free pass for today.

He offers her his arm as has become his most recent habit and they walk to the dinner table where she spots Gendry playing nursemaid to her sister. Other than being a little dirty and tired plus the small cut on her jaw that Gendry dabs at, they are fine. Sansa has to wonder at their luck, but after everything her family has endured, a little good fortune now is the least they deserve.

“Arya, I assume you were being careless.” Sansa greets her sister with a smile and a hug to her head, knowing how much she hates it as it reminds her how short she is. Arya swats her sister’s arms away half-heartedly and lets her sister rest her head on top of hers.

Arya rolls her eyes but hugs her sister’s arms in front of her. “Careless? Me? I am offended.”

Gendry snorts beside her and Arya smacks his thigh lightly for it. He pushed himself running and his thighs cramp lightly so when Arya smacks it, his leg jumps up a bit. “Arya!”

“Yes, dear?” She turns to him, asking sweetly and rubbing his thigh not-so-innocently.

Sansa moves away from her sister and signals her husband back to their room. They can save any further words for tomorrow. Tonight, she would just like to enjoy the pleasure of her husband’s company.

↡

Sansa’s habit of climbing out of the covers has only gotten worse because of her pregnancy. The windows are open and the fresh air blows in, but she still finds it too hot.

Ivar made sure to bar the door the previous night after seeing her more predatory expression before she beckoned him back to the room.

Ivar stays lying on his back, smiling like a loon. Today feels like it’s about to be a good day. Any day that starts with his wife with him in bed is bound to be good. His legs hurt less, and they accomplished all that they set out to do yesterday. They have their hostages, their town, and Ivar has his family in his arms.

Sansa hums awake and stretches languidly. A droplet of drool slips off her face and onto the pillow which she does her best to wipe off discretely. Ivar notices the endearing sight and coos at her. “Good morning, my wolf-wife.”

She hums in reply, pressing a kiss to his naked sternum. “Husband.”

When her eyes open fully, she rocks up and into a sitting position on the bed and stretches her arms up. Ivar turns to her side of the bed and presses his face to the pillow that still smells like her hair.

She gets up and Ivar can hear her moving about the room, putting on a comfortable day dress and fixing her hair. She tosses his clothes at him and Ivar puts them on along with his leg braces, his eyes still stubbornly closed. When he is done, instead of standing he flops back onto the bed.

Sansa rolls her eyes at his antics from where she finishes putting her hair back in a simple braid. “Come on. Back to work.” She calls out.

He groans in response. Sansa stands and grabs hold of his arms. He is absolutely dead weight. She rocks back on her heels to pull him up and she is able to lift him a few inches of the bed before he pulls back and they both tumble in.

Ivar cages his wife in his arms. He doesn’t want to get up yet and tells her just that. “I think not. I deserve some time to relax with my wife after everything.”

Sansa looks up and wriggles up to his face to cradle a cheek in her palm. “When all this is over, and we go back home.” She promises, looking deep into his eyes.

She’s tired and she misses home as well. Ivar kisses the inside of her wrist from where it cradles his face so adoringly.

Ivar sighs. “I know.” Soon it will be just him, his wife, and their little family, but until then, there is still work to do.

He twists them around, making sure to keep his weight off of her, before standing and bringing her up along with him.

“I love you.” He presses a chaste kiss to her lips.

“I love you, too.” She whispers right back.

Now, to finish up here so they can finally go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you reached the end!
> 
> HAHAHAHAHA


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a smaller and easier to digest update! <3

_ YORK _

Sansa attends the funeral for the priest alongside the York residents. There is some debate over who will perform the rights for it as the only holy man left in the town is the bishop who murdered him. In the end, no one does it and everyone simply gathers around with their own prayers.

He is laid to rest in his little garden and the resident stone mason makes a simple headstone to commemorate his time and service to this town. They doubt anyone but the residents of this town will remember their sweet and kind Father Gregory. The journal and book he was always working with will be sent to his old monastery for safekeeping.

After the ceremony, the people of the town return to their lives. For Sansa, it means she has to go back to work.

She checks up on the hostages though she hates to refer to them as such. A necessary evil, but she has at least made sure to keep them unharmed and comfortable. They are free to roam about the town but under armed guard for their protection as well as the Vikings’.

Bishop Heahmund has had such privileges revoked after his repeated attempts of escape and assault.

As of now, she summons the three of them to the church where they have been kept. Prince Alfred supports his brother, Aethelred, who still limps from the knife-wound to the calf her husband had given him. Heahmund is dragged in behind them and deposited by the back of the church.

She stands from the front pew from where she sits to approach them. Alfred puts his wounded brother behind him and the gesture warms Sansa’s heart.

“There is no need to fear for your safety. No one here will harm you.” Sansa says as sincerely as she can.

Aethelred quirks a brow and throws a pointed glance at the bishop behind them. Sansa shakes her head and smiles. Though she’s far more used to being the captive rather than the captor in these situations, she does her best to be a merciful and kind one.

“The bishop has proven himself to be a danger to himself and to others.” She explains coldly. “He murdered a priest without provocation and has threatened myself and my family.”

Alfred, ever the pacifist, nods his head. “We understand, Queen Sansa.”

Like a switch has been flipped, Sansa smiles at them, placing a hand on her growing middle. “Excellent!” She claps her hands. “I will personally bring the three of you to your camp this afternoon where we will begin actual negotiations. Until then, the two of you,” She points at the two princes. “try to stay out of trouble.”

She takes her leave of them and goes to prepare for the meeting.

She walks back to her house without guard. She’s assigned hers to watch over the princes knowing Podrick would be a gentle influence and a stalwart protector. After all, he has experience from watching over her from a time when she was a hostage herself in King’s Landing.

↡

She enters the silent house without knocking. There would be no point, the only ones allowed inside were family. She is about to head up to the rooms when a nervous call of her name startles her out of her reverie about terms and conditions for the ransom of the princes and the bishop too if they want him.

“S-Sansa!” Her husband calls from the dining room. The door is ajar, so Sansa simply pushes it and enters to a surprising scene.

Ivar sits uncomfortably on a chair and a pretty blonde girl stands awfully close to him. Sansa knows better than to jump to any conclusions. Her husband loves her and is extremely loyal, she shares the sentiment towards him obviously, so there is no need to fear infidelity on either part.

“Husband.” She greets, eyebrow quirked up and stifling a smile at his obvious discomfort.

“Wife.” He pouts at her. He was hoping she’d rescue him from this awkwardness but no luck.

Sansa sits beside him, and he holds one of her hands in his, turning his legs toward her and resisting the urge to lay his head by her lap. He settles for placing his other hand on her belly instead. Sansa says she can feel some flutters already and that they mean the baby is moving.

Ivar won’t admit it, but he is slightly jealous of her for the experience. Perhaps jealous is not the correct word, but impatient. He really wants to meet their child and he hates the 9 months he has to wait to meet them. Why any God decided it would take nearly a year to make a babe, he has no idea, but he does have some choice words for them.

Remembering their audience, Sansa clears her throat and taps the hand Ivar lays on her middle. “Won’t you introduce me, love?”

Ivar shakes his head to clear the baby fever that clouds his brain. He can barely help himself nowadays and Sansa doesn’t begrudge him for it. She’s just as excited. They haven’t talked about names yet, but Sansa is no longer sure about saddling a child with a name from the past. She’d like a clean slate for them, a life unburdened by a legacy.

Ivar coughs and as a unit they turn to this very forward girl.

_If her bodice were any looser, it would fall off as she walked._

“Sansa, love, this is Freydis.” Ivar inclines his head toward the girl, but his gaze is on his wife, always on his wife.

“Pleasure to meet you, Freydis.” Sansa looks toward the girl, placing a hand on her husband’s knee possessively. “How may we help you?”

Something about this girl is very off-putting to Sansa, and not only the fact that she obviously came in here with the intent of seducing her husband. Her face is like a porcelain mask so thick, you would start to wonder if there was a face underneath it at all.

Freydis does not do her the courtesy of looking her in the eye. In fact, Freydis does not look at her at all. Her gaze is solely focused on Ivar and she does not respond to Sansa’s question.

Ivar notices the lack of answer and turns to the woman stonily. “Answer my wife.” He orders, close to losing his temper. There are many things Ivar is willing to overlook or ignore, disrespect toward his wife is not one of those things.

“I would offer myself in service to you, my Lord Ivar.” She says, without any inflection in her voice.

Ivar looks offended on behalf of his wife who has gone rigid and steely beside him. “I am not in need of any _services-_ “

Freydis interrupts him and his temper boils dangerously close to an explosion. “Your deformity means that the gods favor you especially. I've always known that.”

He and his wife are shocked into silence at her audacity.

_Is she actually telling **him** what his own condition means?_

She must not be able to read the room at all and continues in that same strange jolly and light tone that creeps him out. “I always look for people who are born different. Because that's the true sign. You are destined for great things.”

Though it does stroke his ego a little to hear it put that way, a few words won’t make him change his mind about how terrible his condition truly is. Yes, it sets him apart from others, but not in a way that is easy to accept or good in most cases.

Luckily, Sansa speaks before he can start spewing vitriol at the girl. “We thank you for your kind words, Freydis, but _we_ will have to decline your... _generous_ offer.”

Freydis smiles and it is so obviously fake. She opens her mouth, probably to protest, but Sansa beats her to it. Now, if only his wife could let go of the death grip she has on his thigh so that he can start feeling that leg again.

Someone must hear his prayers because his wife gets up with a pat to his leg and grabs Freydis by the arm. “Now that this business is settled, let me escort you out.”

Escort is a kind word for Sansa hauling the girl out of there gracefully.

Freydis shows the first genuine expression she has had in this entire interaction when her eyebrows raise and her eyes widen. “Wait,” She protests, but Sansa continues _“escorting”_ her to the door. “It is my destiny. I have seen it.”

Sansa stops abruptly and Ivar begins to grow nervous. She couldn’t possibly be listening to this girl, could she?

Sansa turns to the blonde with a fierce expression. Ivar breathes a sigh of relief; glad he doesn’t have to banish any doubts about his loyalty from his wife’s mind.

Sansa basically snarls her following words as she keeps a strong grasp on the girl’s arm. “And I have _seen_ enough of you.”

She tosses open the door and deposits Freydis gently but firmly outside of their house. “And if I see you come on to my husband, the father of my unborn child, again, I will have you fed to wolves.” She whispers with a friendly smile on her face.

Freydis has gone back to her emotionless and creepy facade. “Am I understood?” Sansa asks, blocking Fryedis’s view of the inside of the house.

Freydis looks to her and smiles gently, a glimmer of mischief shines in her eyes. “Understood, Wolf Queen.” Her voice changes from what it was only moments ago.

Sansa lets go of the girl and steps back warily. The knowledge of her House and her family was not made public. The only people that know are Ivar’s family and the Westerosi, so how could this slip of a girl know?

The blonde slips away, rounding a dark corner and disappearing from view completely before Sansa can ask her any further questions.

The wolf queen shakes her head and goes back inside, ready to forget the entire interaction.

Ivar meets her by the door with an apologetic and sheepish face. “I would just like the fact that I never entertained any advances and also have no idea about how she got into the house into consideration.”

Sansa lets out a fully-belly laugh and cradles the bottom of her bump. Once she is done laughing at him, she straightens up and in her most obnoxious queenly voice, says. “That will be taken into consideration, but I will still expect you to make it up to me later.”

Ivar chuckles in reply. “Later? We don’t have to wait for later.” He growls out, greedy hands reaching for his beautiful wife. It has been much too long.

 _“No, it hasn’t. It’s literally only been a few hours.”_ The logical part of his brain tries to interrupt, but Ivar quickly silences that part of himself.

Before he can take hold of his wife, Sansa steps away and snorts. “I have to go for the negotiations right now.”

Ivar huffs in disappointment and opens his mouth to argue with her-

“But the sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll be back, and we can spend some time _alone_ while the others still see to their duties.”

-then promptly shuts it and resigns himself to waiting a few more hours. The decision for Ivar to stay behind was a unanimous one. Even Ivar agreed that he did not have the most level-head for politics, especially with all the bad blood that would inevitably come up in the negotiations.

_Stupid politics._

_ SAXON CAMP _

Sansa is escorted by a much heavier guard. There is little point to it; the Saxon forces have basically been decimated, but appearances matter and her husband had insisted.

Alfred and Aethelred are escorted with dignity, but the bishop is shackled to the teeth and under strict surveillance. His behaviour towards them has only gotten worse.

All around them, tents are filled with wounded soldiers. Those who can still walk do their best to assist the few healers they have, but the ratio between healer to patient is still overwhelming. Many of the men will die from infections or blood loss before the Saxon camp can move on.

Sansa heads for the command tent where she was shown in last time. She leaves all but Podrick and Willem outside when she enters. King Aethelwulf receives them sitting down at his table forlornly. His wife, Queen Judith wears unrelenting black, though Sansa can still see the red of her eyes from behind the veil.

King Aethelwulf stands shakily. “Queen Sansa,” He inclines his head in greeting. “I assume you are here for negotiations.”

Sansa nods and he gestures for her to sit on the unoccupied chair in front of him.

“What do they want?”

“Half.”

“Of what?”

“Everything.”

Aethelwulf examines the map laid out in front of him. They would chip away at his father’s kingdoms until there was nothing left. He may have lost his sons, but his kingdoms are still his. He opens his mouth to reject her, but she continues.

“In return, we shall return your two sons, Alfred and Aethelred, to you.”

Judith gasps in shock beside him. “You-you have them?”

Sansa nods in response and gestures for Willem to have them brought inside. He leaves her side momentarily to open the tent flaps and the two princes walk in, flanked by armed Vikings.

Judith runs up to them in tears.

_Thank God for small mercies._

She holds both boys in her arms and they wrap an arm each around her as well. Aethelwulf stands to go to them but reconsiders, not wanting himself to be seen as weak in front of the Queen before him. She doesn’t watch the reunion at all, in fact, her gaze stays on Aethelwulf alone, examining his expression for any tells.

He doesn’t know it yet, but Sansa has him read like an open book.

Aethelwulf clears his throat. “While we are thankful for your generous offer as parents, as king, I must decide what is best for the kingdoms.”

Alfred and Aethelred look worriedly at their father from over Judith’s tensing shoulders.

_He couldn’t possibly mean-_

“I am afraid I cannot accept your offer.”

“Aethelwulf!” Judith rounds on him angrily.

The king speaks over her. “Perhaps we can come up with more reasonable terms.”

Sansa lets him stew in that silence. More importantly, she lets his words sink into his family’s heads.

After a minute of silence, she inclines her head toward him a fraction. “Alright. What do you propose?”

Aethelwulf sits back down looking very satisfied with himself. “We will allow you to keep York and Northumbria with legal documentation.”

Sansa quirks an eyebrow. “We already hold York. You could not take it back if you tried, which you have...tried that is, **twice**.”

Aethelwulf balls one hand into a fist and squeezes. Podrick notices the gesture and places a dissuading hand on the pommel of his sword. The king unclenches his hand and takes a calming breath. He does not enjoy the reminder of his failures.

“As it stands, York is under Viking occupation until you can muster a force strong enough to drive them away. Previous Saxon residents have already begun to re-integrate into the Viking community. You offer us nothing and in turn you will receive nothing.” Sansa snaps her fingers and the Vikings guarding the two princes begin to take them away.

Judith cries out and fights against them for it, but she is no match against trained men.

Aethelwulf lets it play out for a few moments but when his sons turn their betrayed gazes towards him, he can stand it no longer. He stands abruptly and reaches a hand toward the retreating Vikings. “Wait!”

Sansa holds up a hand and the Vikings cease pulling their charges out. Aethelwulf sits back down and holds his head in his hands. “Let’s try this again.” He sighs.

Sansa smiles, satisfied. “I don’t want to make this any harder than it has to be. I think I can talk them down into more realistic expectations.”

Sansa stands and looks over the map again. They had discussed only East Anglia, but a stronghold to the north of this land will only cement their position so Sansa plans to help them keep it. She draws an imaginary line with her finger on the map that will take half of Northumbria by the coast, Mercia by connection, and the shores of East Anglia.

Aethelwulf watches it all happen. He’s relieved that they do not touch Wessex, but that is still too tall a price to pay for two men, no matter how important.

Sansa sees his reluctance and grows cold. She is being quite reasonable already. Only half of 3 kingdoms instead of whole kingdoms. Sure, they would land-lock the Saxons, but it is understood that a non-aggression clause would be included.

Sansa leans both hands on the table and gazes down at the seated king. “We have decided to do this diplomatically in spite of your behaviour towards us. Make no mistake, the lands are ripe for the taking, especially as you’ve already broken your army down to nithing in the failed attacks on York.”

“I’ve never-“ Aethelwulf stands, offended and ready to fight. Podrick reacts first and brandishes his sword out in front of his queen.

_It’s a good thing His Grace Ivar isn’t here to see the king threatening his pregnant wife like this. They’d never have peace then._

Sansa rolls her eyes at his posturing. “It’s a simple matter, King Aethelwulf. Do you want your sons back or not?”

The king looks to his battered sons and wife. It is time for peace in this land. “Of course, I do.”

“Then sit back down so we can finish this and have peace.”

Aethelwulf does so and Podrick steps back and sheathes his sword.

Aethelwulf calls for a spare map to be brought into the room, along with ink and a quill for her to draw out the lands the Vikings will take.

Sansa draws out the halves of Northumbria, Mercia, and East Anglia that they will take, being merciful and leaving some more access to the sea by the south.

Two copies of the agreement are made. One for the Saxons to keep, and one for the Vikings. Beyond land and non-aggression, they have a sworn agreement to offer aid when needed in the defence of their borders against outsiders. The updated maps are recreated and sent out with riders to inform other Saxon kingdoms of the news.

They have a spitting angry Bishop Heahmund shown in as the witness for the church, and it is done. The Vikings have legal rights to much more than just East Anglia. Sansa stands to leave and bids the unhappy king farewell. She gives each prince a brief pat on the shoulder, then remembering something leans in to whisper into Alfred’s ear.

Judith tenses up at the action and Sansa keeps her eyes on her. The woman reminds Sansa of someone, but she just can’t put her finger on who it is.

“Your grandfather, we laid him to rest in a little plot by the garden.”

Alfred gives a sharp intake of breath and nearly stumbles. “Did they-did they...?”

He can’t bring himself to finish the question, but Sansa hears it all the same.

_Did they blood eagle him as well?_

She shakes her head. “It was quick, a beheading and nothing more.”

Alfred nods his head in respect and gratitude to her as she exits the tent and then the camp with no further incident. Though his father begrudges their losses, Alfred is optimistic about their new agreement with the Sons of Ragnar and the Vikings, especially when they have proven themselves reasonable and merciful people.

_ YORK _

Sansa returns to the house victoriously. She presents the new map and the signed papers to her husband and his brothers to genuine elation. A feast will be held tomorrow night to commemorate the occasion and as well as to welcome the people of York as one of their own.

Thankfully, there will be no sacrifice.

For now, Sansa goes to bed with her husband, excited about going home and having her babe.

Ivar lies wide awake in bed that night, thinking about the next leg of their journeys, his brothers’ journeys. He has mixed feelings about leaving his brothers now. He has found a place on the battlefield that he never thought he would be able to as a child.

_I used to want to be famous. What happened to me?_

Ivar knows that one path leads to fame, and the other leads back to Winterfell. He can either hunt glory with his brothers or simply go home. He told his brothers what his decision was this afternoon, but in the dark of the night with only his thoughts for company, he can’t help but explore the possibilities some more.

If he goes back to Winterfell, will anyone know him past his part in Sansa’s life? Ivar doesn’t want to be a footnote in somebody else’s story, doesn’t want to live in the background, not when he’s had a taste of what it feels like to be in the front.

Sansa squirms a bit and her head shifts from where it lays on his chest.

He loves his wife. He loves her more than he thought he could ever love anyone. He wants this family, but he wants fame and glory too. He wants both and he curses the Gods for making him choose.

“What’s wrong, Ivar?” Sansa rests her chin on his sternum to look him in the eye.

Ivar wants to reassure her that nothing is wrong, but she can sense a lie with the best of them. He settles for silence instead and presses a soft kiss to her forehead as he strokes her hair.

She must be able to sense something is wrong because she leans back after letting him hold her for a few minutes. She doesn’t ask again, just looks into his eyes as tears slowly fill her own.

She knows what he’s been thinking about though he tries his best to conceal it from her.

“Sansa, wait-“

She doesn’t let him finish, just turns away from him and curls into a ball around herself, cradling her pregnant belly and murmuring sweet words to their babe.

He sits up as well and reaches a hand to rest on her shoulder. “Sansa, love, please.”

Her shoulders shake with sobs, but she obstinately refuses to turn to him. Ivar wraps his arms around her, but she pushes them away. Not knowing what else to do, he lies back down and turns away from her.

Neither of them finds any sleep in the hours before the sun starts creeping over the horizon. The light in their room shifts from a cool silver to a warm peach when Sansa finally turns to her husband’s back.

She hasn’t had time to really inspect his tattoo, but now she does.

Majority of his back is dominated by a large and fearsome looking snake, teeth bared and dripping with venom. It is crowned by a wreath of bones and it wraps around his back and shoulders in a dizzyingly hypnotic pattern.

In the middle of it all is a stylized wolf, snarling and wild. The snake wraps around it, but Sansa sees the attention to detail to make it look less like the wolf is being constricted and more like it is being enveloped in some sort of protection.

Sansa reaches a finger to trace it, knowing this is a love letter from her husband that will live forever on his skin. He tenses at the initial contact but relaxes after a while.

She’s tired of holding on to things that only want to leave. He’s proven enough that no matter what, he’ll come back to her and that’s all she can ask.

“You can stay with your brothers if you want, Ivar.” Her voice cracks with tears and it breaks Ivar’s heart to hear her resign herself to a life of waiting and longing.

“Sansa-“ He tries to turn around to face her, hold her, but her hand on his shoulder stops him.

“I love you, Ivar.” She says it so defeatedly, like it’s something she has no choice against. She stops tracing his tattoo as she sits up. “And if that means I must let you go find happiness and glory elsewhere, then that is what I will do.”

She turns to the edge of the bed to stand and ready herself for the day. Ivar twists around abruptly and holds her around the middle before she can push him away.

“I swore an oath to you, Sansa. I won’t break my word.” He protests. Sansa holds his hands on her abdomen and he feels a flutter from inside her.

“I love you. I won’t leave you.” He pulls her back down next to him knowing that if the issue isn’t put to rest before she exits the room, it never will be.

“I admit it. Thoughts of my brothers and battles and war-won glories did cross my mind, but if the price to pay for it is your happiness, our family, then there is no question.”

Tears fall in silent rivulets down her cheeks and Ivar curses himself and that voice of madness that made him ever consider leaving her behind **again**.

“Sansa, my heart, I would lose myself if I had to leave you behind ever again. I’m sorry to have cast any doubts in your mind. I’m not leaving my life behind in search of more death.”

Sansa opens her mouth to protest. He knows she will repeat her nonsense about waiting for him, but Ivar won’t have it. He kisses her passionately on the mouth hoping she can hear all the other words that beat in his heart.

He moves back a breath but presses their foreheads together. “I’m a fool to imagine there is a greater glory or happiness than to be with you and our family.” He smiles softly, apologetically. “A fool who loves you with all he is.”

Sansa grasps both sides of his head with trembling hands and he holds them there. Sansa presses a tremulous and hopeful kiss to his lips before moving upward and sobbing in relief into his hair.

Ivar rests his head by her heart and simply listens to the beat of it. There might never be songs of his adventures and victories, but the beat of Sansa’s heart and his and knowing that they march on only for each other is sweeter than any melody there might have been.

_Man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it._

↡

Ubbe sits down after they toast breakfast to their success. He takes a leisurely sip of the ale in his hand and asks. “So, brothers, what will we do next?”

Ivar leans forward, cradling one of Sansa’s hands in his and presses a soft kiss to her knuckles. “We go home.”

“And what about Kattegat?” Hvitserk asks. “What about Lagertha? If she so chooses to withdraw her support, the loss of our home base would be a devastating blow.”

“I’ve sworn a vow not to go after her.”

“A vow to a dead man.” Sigurd argues.

“A vow to our dead father.”

Sigurd rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue the point further. Hvitserk turns to Sigurd and Ubbe. “We need to sort things out. We must kill Lagertha and assert our position there as well as here before Bjorn returns.”

Ivar is proud of Hvitserk. At least he leaves his other brothers with someone with a mind for tactics

Sigurd shrugs. “Why not? We are within our rights to take revenge on our mother’s killer. Bjorn will not be back for who knows how long. We must take the opportunity presented to us.”

Ubbe nods. “We can leave someone in charge here.” At Sansa’s reproachful and sharp glare, he adds. “After we settle everything down in two?" Still disapproving. "Three? Three months.”

Sansa nods pleased with the addition. She knows her husband would still like to take revenge for his mother. His mother was very important in his life and part of his drive is the guilt of leaving her behind to go off with his father to his destiny.

“So, who will lead?” Ivar asks. Hvitserk rolls his eyes, at least the worst of the problem will be gone without Bjorn and Ivar trying to piss on each other and throw testosterone around.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hvitserk asks. Ubbe looks to him sharply, but he needn’t worry. “Ubbe will be king.”

Hvitserk doesn’t want to lead, he wants to fight and travel. In fact, if it would be alright with Ivar and his wife, he’d like to explore “Westeros” as well once the issue at Kattegat is settled. Ubbe can be king there and Sigurd can take charge of the veritable kingdom they’d won here in England.

“I suggest you go to Harald.” Ivar adds. “Harald also has plans of invading Kattegat. A short-term alliance will suit you well.”

Sansa also offers her advice, nodding along to her husband’s suggestion. “Gather support from the other kings and Jarls that we’ve recently fought with for help. Hopefully, they will be sympathetic to your cause and the fact you’ve proven yourselves able leaders and warriors.”

“I don’t understand you, Ivar.” Sigurd shakes his head. “How can you be content with your mother’s killer on the throne is beyond me.”

Instead of lashing out like he normally would, Ivar finds that he can’t muster the negative emotion needed in this situation. Though it hurts a little, the pain in his chest is hollow. It’s trivial to the pain of even thinking about leaving Sansa and the family he will make behind.

“I’m done with the past.” He says, holding his wife’s hand to his cheek and pressing the other hand to her growing middle. “I would like to live for the future now.”

Sansa tears up at the words, touched, and presses on the hand he holds to her abdomen.

“It’s been safe for Sansa to sail home for weeks. We’ve only stayed this long in order to help you all finalize things, but we have to head back soon if we want to make it home for the birth.”

Ivar’s brothers collectively roll their eyes at his words, but he couldn’t care less.

Hvitserk finishes his drink and asks a question he already knows the answer to. “Will you ever be back, Ivar?”

Ivar shakes his head and the answer no longer brings him as much pain as it did last night.

He is ready to put the past behind him where it belongs and look towards the future.

 _“Happiness is nothing.”_ He hears the voice in his head whisper one last time. He finally identifies it as his father’s.

His father was a great man, but he was wrong.

Happiness is a home, and Ivar is glad to have found his already.

Ragnar had searched his whole life for his only to leave it behind. Ivar won’t make the same mistakes.

Ivar goes home.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of bitter

_ DOCKS _

Arya’s eager to be off. Sailing suits her, and though their heading is for home, she feels excited anyway. She’ll have to rush if she wants to give the new babe the best gift. Sansa said no to the exploding powder.

Gendry will be coming with her of course, though Arya hates that everyone assumes he’s the bodyguard when most of the time it’s her making sure he doesn’t get harmed or lost.

Arya taps her foot impatiently in her boat causing the entire thing to rock. Gendry tries his best not to roll his eyes at her. Ivar is saying good-bye to everyone he’s ever known or been familiar with to be with Sansa and the romantic in Gendry practically coos at that.

Ubbe reaches an arm out for Ivar to clasp, but Ivar grabs it and pulls his big brother forward for a hug. Ivar pats his back strongly and (he’ll deny this until his dying breaths) nuzzles into his older and bigger brother’s shoulder. “Thank you, Ubbe, for everything.”

Ube pulls away and ruffles Ivar’s unbound hair. “Not a problem, brother.”

No matter what happens, Ivar will always be his littlest brother.

Ubbe hands his brother off to Hvitserk next who does his best to push Ivar over and push his knuckles into his hair. It gets ridiculous to watch considering their age and training.

Sansa shakes her head bemusedly but doesn’t get in the way of things. She shares a commiserating look with Ubbe and allows him to hug her good-bye.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along, Hvitserk?” Ivar asks, shoving his older brother back forcefully and running a hand through his hair.

Hvitserk laughs. “Miss me already, Ivar?” He jokes, wrapping an arm around Ivar’s shoulders. “I’ll be sure to visit.” He reassures.

“Thanks again for that handy map!” Hvitserk shouts to the antsy Arya who paces on her little boat. Arya acknowledges the statement with a nod of her head and looks pointedly back in the direction of her ship.

More seriously, he turns to Ivar and hold him by both shoulders. “I’ll miss you, little brother, but this won’t be the last you’ll be seeing of me.”

Ivar smiles brightly at him then looks to his wife who smiles gently at the exchange. “Then we’ll be waiting for you, my brother.”

Ivar moves aside to let Hvitserk bid Sansa farewell and regrets letting him close to his wife immediately.

Hvitserk gives an exaggeratedly low bow and kisses Sansa’s hand with a loud smack before bouncing up and looking her in the eye. “Good-bye, Queen Sansa. Look after my brother, won’t you?”

Sansa pulls her hand out of his quickly and pats him on the shoulder instead. “I will do my level best. Thank you, Hvitserk.”

Sigurd shifts a little on his feet and hold both hands behind his back. He gives Sansa a quick nod. He still isn’t completely over her actions at the Wessex villa, but he has to admit the new hairstyle suits him much better.

Ivar stands in front of his last brother awkwardly. Sansa nudges his side and Ivar offer his forearm out. Sigurd takes it and smirks. “Good-bye, Ivar.”

“Sigurd.” Ivar nods back.

“I-I know we haven’t been each other’s favourite brothers by any stretch of imagination, but I do wish you the best.” He offers.

Ivar snorts and a small smile begins to grow on his face. “We might not always-“

“Ever.” Hvitserk coughs from beside them.

“-get along, but you are my brother and I wish you all the best.” Ivar pulls Sigurd into a hug. Sigurd isn’t ikely to ever visit but he extends the offer anyway. “Feel free to come around.”

Sigurd nods his head but everyone in attendance knows he won’t be doing it. Some relationships are better maintained from afar, with the fuel of fond memories and the barrier of long-distance to dull any resentments.

Sigurd pulls his other hand from behind his back and offers it to Ivar and his wife. Cradled in his palm are three small bones with runes carved into them. Sansa doesn’t understand it, but accepts it and thanks him anyways.

Ivar understands it though.

**ᛈ ᛒ ᚹ**

_Perthro, Berkana, and Wunjo._

_Runes for Freya, Frigg, and Eir; blessings for pregnancy and childbirth._

The gift is obviously handmade, and the small drops of blood and the little nick Sigurd has on one finger is telling. Ivar pulls him into another hug. Sigurd deserves it.

His older brother isn’t prepared for it and basically stumbles into him but is able to regain his footing. He pats Ivar on the back awkwardly and after a few seconds returns the hug full force.

“Goodbye, Sigurd.”

They pull away from each other and Sigurd smirks. “Goodbye, Boneless.” He teases, pushing the man back to his awaiting wife.

As soon as they get on the boat, Arya pushes them away from the docks and orders Gendry to start rowing. Ivar is tempted to look back, but a voice in the wind whispers to him.

_“Don’t waste your time looking back, you’re not going that way.”_

His father sends his blessings.

A sun-warmed spot on his head that feels like a kiss and a fat drop of rain from a clear sky.

_“Go.”_

His mother sends her love.

Ivar breathes in one last breath of English air and smiles, pulling his wife in close.

_Thrice-blessed and homebound at last._

_ VIKINGS _

Ubbe leaves a fierce shieldmaiden named Gunnhild in charge of the settlement. She’s a strong fighter and has a good enough head on her shoulders. Most importantly, she gets along very well with the Saxon residents of their kingdoms without needing to convert to Christianity which she resolutely rejects.

The brothers split up to plead their cases with the different kings and jarls. Ubbe alone arrives at Harald’s busy fishing kingdom.

The wet markets dominate most of the dock and the smell of fish is overwhelming. A little ahead, gutted sharks hang from hooks as they let the blood drip out into bowls that they will offer back to the ocean.

Ubbe passes under a gargantuan skeletal rib cage and into the city proper. Harald’s hall is guarded by an imposing white-haired man with one eye whose posturing only irritates Ubbe.

“Let me through.” The white-haired man ignores him. “Don’t you know who I am?”

The man swaggers forward and two more men melt out of the shadows to flank him. Ubbe isn’t threatened. “I know who you are. What do you want?” White-Hair asks condescendingly.

“I want to speak to King Harald, not his dog.” Ubbe replies, unflinching. “Now, get out of my way.” He steps forward only to have his path blocked by White-Hair.

Ubbe starts getting irritated now.

“I’ll ask him to see if it’s alright.”

“No, you won’t.” Ubbe shakes his head. “Because you will not have a tongue to ask him with.”

White-Hair squirms a bit and gulps nervously, still unwilling to move from his spot.

“I will nail you to the doorway. Do you understand?” Ubbe finishes.

A few heartbeats of silence pass before the big man steps aside and allows Ubbe to pass.

The reception Ubbe receives from Harald is much warmer. “Ubbe Lothbrok!” he stands with his arms outstretched. “Why did you not return to Kattegat?”

Ubbe scoffs and crosses his arms out in front of him. “You know Lagertha killed my mother and took Kattegat. I’m here because once again, our intentions align.”

“Then I take it you and your men will support me when I take Kattegat.” Harald says, sitting back down and smiling into his wine cup.

Ubbe shakes his head. “No.”

“No?” Harald puts his cup down and straightens in his seat.

“No. When we take Kattegat, it will be in the name of Ragnar’s sons, his heirs, not yours.” Ubbe says approaching the throne. “Kattegat’s defences are strong and it will take more than our combined forces to take it from Lagertha’s hands.”

Harald nods his head understandingly, knowing how well-defended Kattegat is from first-hand experience.

Astrid chooses that moment to walk into the hall from the back. She captures Harald’s attention immediately, smitten newlywed (simp) that he is. He reaches a hand out to her and she takes it.

“Surely you remember Astrid. She is my queen now?”

Ubbe doesn’t much care for the woman, but he is suspicious of how she came to be here when last he saw her, she was happily sharing Lagertha’s bed in Kattegat.

“Congratulations to the both of you.” He toasts sincerely, keeping his gaze on Harald who assist her to her seat and takes his own.

“So, who will be king in Kattegat?” Astrid asks.

Ubbe looks to her now. Her face is blank, but her eyes are sharp. They will have to keep a close eye on Harald’s new queen.

“My father proclaimed it himself when he returned from his self-imposed exile.”

**_“KING UBBE!”_ **

Though he challenged each of his brothers to strike him down, he only called actually Ubbe king. And as the oldest of his brothers and the only one with an interest in ruling, the task falls to him naturally.

“I will be King of Kattegat.”

↡

Hvitserk and Sigurd recruit more men with the offer of fertile farming lands in England.

It’s a good incentive and they are able to recruit warriors even without the blessings of their jarls and kings.

↡

Floki and Helga arrive in the land of the Gods.

There are no visions by waterfalls nor waters that cleanse infections from wounds, but the island is quiet, and it is there they mourn their dead, together.

The land is hardy, but rich after some effort.

It is difficult with just them around, but they have faith that this is where they were intended to go, and if they should need company, the Gods will send it.

 _Yes._ Helga thinks, cradling her growing belly as Floki prays by one of the many geysers that provide warm fresh water to their new home.

_The first child of the new world._

_The Gods will provide._

↡

Half of their army gathers in Harald’s kingdom and a few nights before their departure, Astrid disappears.

Harald is heartbroken and furious. When people ask him why, he strokes his much shorter braid longingly and remains silent.

The brother plan for a two-pronged assault, slowly, but surely. Half of their army will attack by sea, led by Ubbe and Sigurd. The other half will attack from the land, using the woods as cover.

↡

Lagertha welcomes Astrid back into the fold and prepares her own army. Astrid no longer shares her bed, but readies for war alongside her and if that is all Lagertha will get, she will content herself with it.

“Was it worth it?” Lagertha asks.

Astrid looks like she won’t respond, just keeps sharpening her sword, so Lagertha turns away.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Lagertha turns back around but Astrid isn’t looking at her.

“I knew you needed me, so I came.”

Lagertha walks up to her, determined to look her in the eye for this conversation. She crooks a finger underneath Astrid’s chin and forces her to look up.

“Why?”

Astrid slaps her hand away and goes back to sharpening her sword. Lagertha can see the fond smile she wears on its reflection and sits down beside her to do her own preparations.

Their peace is disrupted by the sound of two horn blasts from the docks and one long blast from the woods, courtesy of their Sami allies whose nomadic lifestyle prevented them from being tempted by Hvitserk’s offer of English lands.

↡

The war begins in the woods.

Hvitserk’s forces struggle against the Sami. They use bolos and nets, traps go off left and right before Hvitserk can get his men to retreat to the open fields.

Hvitserk guards the flanks for any following Sami, but they are hard to spot in the foliage. He suddenly finds himself choking, his back against a tree. Hvitserk pulls against the rope, but he can feel his throat getting crushed and he almost gives up.

He pushes his entire body forward and that is enough force to break him free. Hvitserk ends up on the ground, gasping on all fours. The person that tried to choke him rushes forward with a knife ready. Hvitserk tosses himself onto his back and catches the man’s arm before the knife he wields can pierce him.

The temptation to close his eyes and let go entices him but Hvitserk fights against it. He pushes with his right leg to switch their positions and flips the blade around to stab the man through the throat.

Hvitserk stumbles up, picks up his sword and runs.

The Sami do not follow them past the treeline.

_So that’s their game._

Hvitserk raises a horn attached to his belt and gives it a short blast and a long blast, raising his arm to the woods.

Flaming arrows rain down on the Sami setting the place ablaze.

Hvitserk turns back to the battlefield. About a quarter of his men have been cut down.

Lagertha and her shieldmaidens take the field as well.

Hvitserk takes some time to breathe, then he runs forwards yelling. “CHARGE!”

↡

Lagertha leaves Astrid and Torvi in charge of the dock’s defence. Torvi and her archers watch from the walls, but each ship pushes onward using shield walls over their heads. They will have to wait for them to disembark. They don’t at all notice the small troop of men who have made their way from the East cliffs on foot into Kattegat.

Sigurd and his men take the archers by surprise. They kill everyone but Torvi and Guthrum, leaving them tied up in the tower.

Torvi rages and struggles, but the binds will not give. One of the men holds a knife to Guthrum’s throat in a clear warning and she stops.

Without the cover from the archers, the ground troops Lagertha has left behind slowly succumb to the waves of Vikings.

Astrid orders a retreat to join up with their larger forces on the battlefield. The Vikings follow, leaving Kattegat unscathed.

↡

When Torvi and Guthrum finally manage to free themselves, Torvi rushes to the battlefield to provide what support she can. She instructs Guthrum to watch his siblings and with a firm kiss to his forehead, leaves him behind.

Guthrum hides Hali under the beds as their forces rush away from the docks. He had wanted to join them in the battle, but his mother was resolved not to let him go. He had tried to argue that Margrethe was there to watch over Hali and Asa, but her recent outbursts have cast doubts in the minds of the people over her sanity.

Hali cries in fear but Guthrum shushes him. “It will be alright, Hali.” He covers up his little brother’s hiding place with a blanket and leaves the toddler with a kiss to his forehead.

“Stay here and stay quiet.” He instructs gently. “I will be back.”

He goes deeper into the house to check on Margrethe and Asa but the two are nowhere to be found. Fearing the worst, he runs out and looks left and right for any signs of them. There are dead bodies in the streets, but no further sounds than the distant clashing of swords and battle cries.

No. There is a sound closer by. He closes his eyes to calm himself and hear better.

It’s Asa and it’s coming from the direction of the docks. Guthrum follows the sound with his sword out. If Margrethe ran and was killed, maybe Asa was left behind, he hopes.

The sound moves closer to the docks.

The ones who’ve taken Asa are on the move, so Guthrum runs faster. His heart thuds in his throat and he wants to vomit, he’s so worried.

He couldn’t protect his own siblings. What would he be able to do on a battlefield?

He reaches a secluded portion of the beach and is relieved to see Margrethe holding his sister. He gives himself time to relax, but something about the situation is not right.

Margrethe puts his sister in the water and holds her underneath. Guthrum rushes back into action and slices into Margrethe’s arm, but she doesn’t react. Abandoning his sword, he does his best to wrench his sister away from her grasp.

He pulls Asa to him and backs away from the crazed woman warily. Asa coughs salt water into his chest and vomits, but he doesn’t pay it any mind, too relieved that she’s alive.

“I’m here, Asa. I’m here.” He coos, holding her close and making his way away from the beach.

They leave Margrethe there. Her mind far away and her blood steadily leaking into the sea.

When she goes, it is with a crazed look in her eyes and visions of the battlefield on her mind.

_Astrid is dead._

_Sigurd is dead._

**_Lagertha_ ** _is dead._

A bright smile blooms on her face as she falls forward into the cold embrace of an indifferent sea.

↡

They battle until the sun reaches its zenith in the sky. Lagertha loses her shield in the melee and wields a decapitated head in its stead.

Ubbe is easy to spot in the crowd. His braid whips blood every time he turns to strike someone else down with his axe.

Hvitserk is a hurricane. Never staying in one spot, flitting from one confrontation to the next before most people have the time to process.

She can’t spot Sigurd’s signature hair anywhere in the crowd.

_Perhaps he’s fallen._

She hears Astrid cry out and turns to her.

↡

Harald throws his traitorous wife to the ground and twists back quickly to intercept a swing to his head. He pushes back, locking the blade at the angle his axe meets the handle. The shieldmaiden stumbles back and Harald uses the opportunity to lodge his axe into her chest.

Astrid tries to scramble away, too disoriented to stand. A sharp pain to her foot stops her. She looks down at her legs to see Harald pulling his axe away from her severed foot.

Astrid screams.

She tears her eyes away from the gruesome sight to watch Harald advance on her.

“Any last words, my treacherous wife?”

Astrid gasps for breath as he presses his axe down on her chest. She can feel herself flagging. Knowing what she does she can’t help but give him a bloody smile.

Astrid pulls out a small knife. Harald is unfazed. He’d kill her before she could strike anywhere near him.

Astrid gasps for her breaths now but is determined to finish this. “I’d rather die.” She musters all of her remaining strength to stab herself in the pelvis. “than mother any of your spawn.”

Harald’s eyes wide. “No!” he yells out, falling to his knees on the middle of a battlefield. He pulls out the knife and holds a hand to her wound to suppress the bleeding.

Astrid smirks. He’s too late.

Her head lolls to the side, away from the distraught king.

Lagertha runs towards them.

_I loved you as much as I knew how._

Astrid’s eyes close and her face rests into a satisfied and smug smile as she breathes her last.

_I’m sorry it wasn’t enough, Lagertha._

↡

Harald screams his pain for the Gods to hear.

Lagertha is unstoppable, single-minded in her determination to reach Astrid and avenge her by killing the still grieving would-be King of Norway.

A strong blow to her turned back stops her in her tracks. She turns to swiftly strike down the opportunist, but her swing is blocked by a shield. She tosses the head she uses as a makeshift shield at them and it surprises her opponent enough for her to rush them.

She tackles him to the ground and uses the sword of a nearby corpse to stab her opponent through the chest mercilessly.

He gasps out and something causes Lagertha to take a closer look at her downed enemy. Past the dirt and the blood, she sees the draconic eye that has gone blank in death. She pushes the hair back and that’s when it hits her.

She’s killed Sigurd. The world goes silent.

Remorse is a cold and sharp pain in her chest and she finds it hard to breathe. Her hands shake where they’re placed by Sigurd’s face.

Little by little, small droplets of blood fall onto his face like rain. A hacking cough makes its way out of her throat and when she lets it out, it carries blood with it.

She looks down to see the end of a blade protrude from her chest. Just as she makes to touch it to see if it is real or simply a vision, the wielder pulls the blade out of her chest with a force that causes her to fall back as well.

Lagertha shivers as she stares at the grey sky above the battlefield. Hvitserk’s face enters her line of vision. Tears make clear tracks down his blood and gore covered face.

**_Killed by a son of Ragnar._ **

His lips move but she can no longer hear him.

Astrid’s dead body lies abandoned only a few more feet away. Her eyes glazed over and wide-open staring at Lagertha.

Lagertha blinks and the battlefield and its chaos disappears.

Aslaug’s slippered feet enter her vision and the distinct sound of an arrow embedding into flesh registers in Lagertha’s mind. Aslaug falls to her knees and then to her front, but her eyes still shine with life and they twinkle perceptively at Lagertha.

It’s a spine-chilling sight to watcher her mouth open and hear Hvitserk’s words spill out along with the roar of war.

“For my mother, and now my brother. This is justice.”

Lagertha wills her eyes shut and she can feel herself be lifted away. Her burdens slide off her shoulders, her guilt, her anger, her resentment. The sun continues to brighten past her closed eyelids and far off, she can hear the song of Valkyries come to take her to Valhalla.

The famous shieldmaiden meets her end on the battlefield as she is meant to, securing her seat in Valhalla among all of Odin’s great warriors.

_“Hello again, my first wife.” Ragnar teases beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders that Astrid bats away._

_“Learn to share, Ragnar.” Astrid says grumpily, replacing his arm with hers. Lagertha leans into the half-embrace and sighs in contentment._

_She only wishes she’d been able to see her son again, but she knows in her heart that they will meet again here in Valhalla, and he will delight the entire assembly with his tales of battle and adventure._

_She only needs to wait a little more._

_Lagertha lays a hand on Astrid’s lap and holds Ragnar’s with her other one._

_Until then, this isn’t a bad place to wait._

↡

When Lagertha falls, the sky starts to darken, and a wind sweeps over the field. Thunder rumbles in the distance and her men throw down their weapons in surrender. There is no hope of victory now.

A cheer goes up from the other side, but Ubbe simply wipes his face and looks around in search of his brothers. He spots Hvitserk first, standing over Lagertha’s dead body and looking to the heavens.

As he approaches, he notices another dead body by his brother’s feet, It is Sigurd’s, with a sword still deeply imbedded in his chest.

He hears Hvitserk’s cries now and he pulls his younger brother into a hug. Hvitserk’s face fits in the crook of his neck like it did when they were boys. Ubbe won’t let himself cry. He has to be strong for the both of them right now.

There are no words. He just lets Hvitserk cry and sob and rage in his arms.

Victory, and revenge are theirs, but Sigurd is lost and there is nothing either of them can do about it.

↡

They burn the bodies.

Two days later, Lagertha and Sigurd are given proper send-offs. Their allies attend the ceremony that doubles as Ubbe’s coronation but head out soon after. Some of the ships will head back home. The others will sail to England to begin farming and building a true settlement.

It takes hardly any time at all for the residents of Kattegat to adapt to the new rule. Ubbe is a familiar face and a merciful king. He is slow to anger and puts the welfare of the people above his own.

Margrethe disappears and Ubbe lets it go easily after hearing about her attempted drowning of Asa. She is proclaimed a criminal and Torvi grudgingly thanks him for it.

Being king suits him, but not everyone in Kattegat is well.

Torvi is bitter about Lagertha’s loss and death, Margrethe’s disappearance, and Bjorn keeping away. How long he plans on making her wait is anyone’s guess but even when he was last home, she’s been feeling them drift further apart. He no longer speaks to her outside of their bed and Torvi wants something better for herself than a marriage like that.

She sits away from the revelry and leaves as soon as she is finished eating. Not yet ready to go home to the house, she heads to the docks.

Ubbe sits himself heavily beside her. “Torvi.” He inclines his head and raises his cup to her.

She acknowledges his greeting with a grunt, fiddling with one of the rings on her fingers.

“Are you alright?” Ubbe asks. His brother told them to look after Torvi and his children. Ubbe does not plan to break that vow.

Torvi scoffs and gives him a wry look before sighing tiredly and going back to her thoughts.

“Bjorn told me to look after you and the children.” It is silent for a while as Torvi tries to come up with a response.

“Why couldn’t he come home and do it himself?” She asks, fed up with the waiting and the loneliness.

Ubbe looks at her apologetically and she sighs.

“I don’t blame Bjorn. I don’t” She isn’t sure who she’s trying to convince but the expression Ubbe makes before he can cover it with his drink is telling.

“He’ll come back to you. You have his children.” He tries, offering his words and his cup for her to share.

Torvi chuckles darkly and takes a long drink, draining it. “Children die. We all die. We mustn’t try so hard to hold on to things that pass.”

Ubbe laughs and tosses the empty into the sea. “Is that what this is then?”

She looks confused at his antics, so he continues. “Is this you letting go? Of Bjorn? Of Lagertha?”

She inclines her head and purses her lips. Instead of arguing back or continuing the joke like she usually would, a long breath leaves her.

“Maybe it is.” She looks into Ubbe’s eyes now. “I’m sorry, about you and Margrethe, I mean.”

Ubbe shakes his head and grasps one of her hands with his. “It was for the best.” He sighs.

They pass the rest of the night in companionable silence as the potential for something more grows in the space between.

↡

Hvitserk sees dead people.

It isn’t just in his dreams or in the dark of the night. He’s haunted. Sometimes, he’d see them in the peripheries of his vision. They call to him in anger, and anguish.

The worst are the visions of Sigurd.

He drowns himself in ale to numb the fear and guilt.

He loses sleep., only succumbing when his body wrestles control from his troubled mind.

He dreams of the woods and the nightmarish monster lurking there. Tentacles fall from the canopy and pick his men up by the necks writhing and constricting. An inhuman roar echoes in the dark and the brush of something by his ear is the only warning he has before he himself is choked against a tree.

Hvitserk pulls and pulls, but in the dream the hold against his neck doesn’t budge. Instead, it wraps around his neck and snakes its way around his body, wrapping him tightly and paralysing him.

He’s made to watch again and again as Sigurd struggles against Lagertha only to die. He struggles against his bindings, but they give no quarter. Without him to take advantage of Lagertha’s distraction, she gets back up and goes for Ubbe next.

Suspense fills him as they battle. Ubbe wins, but only barely. Before he can even feel relieved, the monster strikes his older brother from behind. Piercing him through the chest with a thick, bloody appendage. When it pulls away, Hvitserk is horrified to be able to see _through_ his brother, past the viscera and the gore.

The monster shrieks right beside his ear and when he closes his eyes, he feels it bite into his chest. As the monster pulls away and takes most of his flesh with him, Hvitserk wakes.

It takes him some time to orient himself, but when he tries to heft himself into a sitting position, he finds that he can’t. His hands and legs don’t obey him. He can’t even open his mouth to scream.

Something in his peripheries moves, and Hvitserk’s gaze turns to it in reflex. He can’t see it yet in the dark of his room, but he can hear the steady shifting of dirt that sounds like crawling.

His heart slows from its thundering gallop. Maybe Ivar’s come to visit and bring him along on an adventure. Moisture gathers in his eyes and it blurs his vision. He tries to blink but even that is unmanageable.

When the moonlight shifts and reveals blonde hair, Hvitserk knows who has come to visit him.

_Sigurd_

Hvitserk wrenches his eyes away, determined not to see. He renews his struggles to get a hold of his body but other than the thundering of his heart and the quick shallow breaths that do little to fill his lungs, nothing happens.

The crawling continues toward him. The sound of it accompanies the gasping breaths of a dying man and the groans of a wounded soldier.

_“Hvitserk.”_

It whispers.

_“Hvitserk.”_

It beckons him to look.

_“Hvitserk.”_

It keeps calling.

A cold hand lands gently on his face and Hvitserk is in a full panic attack now. When it wrests his head to the side, he does his best to prepare to see Sigurd’s pale and bloodied face.

Instead, he sees Thora, the only good thing in his miserable life now.

He takes a deep calming breath, and she shushes him back to sleep in her arms.

“You’re okay, Hvitserk. You’re okay.”

**_No, he really isn’t._ **

****

_ WESTEROS _

Their reception is a warm one, metaphorically at least. The spring snows are cold as a witch’s tit and make the winters of his homeland seem tropical.

He tries to hide his intermittent shivering from his wife who insists it’s a balmy afternoon, but she smirks at him knowingly.

_Oh, he’ll get her back for that later._

He’ll have her trembling in his arms later, but not from the cold, and never from fear; from something much more gratifying.

Though he’s grateful for the space on the ship, the constant rocking and Sansa’s pregnancy related nausea have not been very conducive for the conjugal pursuits they enjoyed on the way to Kattegat. They are both happy to be back on solid ground and most importantly, finally home.

The courtyard is filled with the residents of Winterfell and they cheer at the royal couple’s return.

Ivar rides in on his chariot rather than on horseback. He made sure to bring Floki’s last gift to him along. The trick was asking Arya when she was in a good mood, and that means just as she left Gendry’s rooms.

Sansa dismounts and Jon rushes over to hug her, being careful not to crush her belly.

Starks are big on reunion hugs Ivar notices.

Ghost wiggles his way in between and nudges her middle gently, giving it a sniff and a happy lick, all the while swatting Jon in the face with his exuberantly wagging tail.

Arya hugs Jon next and Ivar goes over to give the man a hug as well, because why not?

Jon is a great hugger, not as good as Sansa, but really no one can compete.

When he pulls away, Jon smiles at him. “Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.”

There must be an inside joke because Sansa laughs and swats Jon on the shoulder. Arya chuckles as well, punching Jon’s other arm.

Ivar winces for him. Arya packs a bony punch.

“Don’t even start.” Sansa laughs. “How is my kingdom?”

Jon opens his mouth to answer, but Sansa leans down and coos at Ghost. “Did you take good care of my kingdom? Yes, you did. Yes, you did. Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy!”

Ivar laughs as Jon’s mouth clamps shut and he pouts. He goes over to take Sansa’s arm and force her to rest. An excited Maester Wolkan does the same.

Sansa rolls her eyes at his protectiveness, but she loves it and he can read her enjoyment from her smile. He goes a step further to taste it from her lips as well.

“What was that for?” She asks as they ascend the steps.

Ivar shakes his head and smiles brightly. “I’m just happy to be home.”

↡

“You will not be in the room during the birth!”

“Yes, I will!”

“Your Grace, this stress is not good for the child.” Maester Wolkan interrupts the arguing couple.

Sansa takes a deep breath and massages the bridge of her nose. Ivar crosses his arms petulantly from where he sits in their solar.

“Ivar, it is not custom for you to be in there with me.” She tries to explain again. Leaning forward onto her desk where the records from the past few months are being reviewed.

“Screw custom!” Ivar shouts, not calming down at all. Sansa throws her arms up in frustration and takes her seat.

“I am going to be in there with you when you bring _our_ daughter into the world.” He continues, kneeling at her feet and pressing an apologetic kiss to where their daughter kicks and rolls.

Sansa rolls her eyes, unmoved. “Ivar, no.”

“Sansa, love, with all due respect.” He inclines his head and gives her a mischievous smile. “You are free to try and stop me.”

Sansa sputters angrily and the effect is not as imposing as she usually is, not on her doting and overprotective husband at least. Ivar stands and presses chaste smiling kisses to her frowning lips.

The frown melts from her face into a smile and she laughs into him.

Maester Wolkan exits the room discretely. They can continue discussing the arrangements for the birth later when the king and queen are no longer indisposed.

↡

Ivar nearly faints during the birth, not because of the blood, but the helplessness and anxiety that eats at him. He sits beside his wife the entire time and lets her squeeze his hand whenever she is hit by something called a contraction.

Luckily, the birth is an easy one and Ivar thanks all the Gods for it. He weighs the pros and cons of having children while they take the babe away to clean her.

Sansa sits up on the bed, sweaty and tired but triumphant. “You did wonderfully, my love.” He says, pressing a snow dampened cloth to her head and sitting up next to her. Sansa leans her head against his shoulder, and he presses a kiss to her hair.

Their daughter cries loudly and continuously and both parents are relieved to hear the racket she makes.

“She’s howling already.” Sansa comments.

Sansa births the placenta much more easily. Too exhausted to feel anything between her legs for a while, the midwife works quickly.

Maester Wolkan looks happy as can be as hands them their baby. “A healthy princess, Your Highnesses.”

Ivar and Sansa simultaneously let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding. Sansa reaches her arms out to receive her baby girl.

She’s precious. Bald as can be, but her eyes are a blue paler that either hers or Ivar’s. “Hello, my little wolf cub.” She greets.

Their baby girl mouths at Sansa’s breast and it’s instinctual how she brings the babe to feed. She latches quickly and Sansa supports their daughter’s head with the crook of an arm as she turns her whole baby into her chest.

Ivar cries quietly beside them wearing the biggest smile. “Thank you, wife.” He says, stroking a gentle finger down their daughter’s downy cheek.

This is the greatest gift he has ever received from the person he loves more than life itself. He wasn’t sure he could ever love something as much as his wife, but this baby who hasn’t even spoken or looked at him yet already tugs at his heartstrings.

“I’ve never known what it is to be loved or to truly love.” Ivar confesses gently, while stroking their baby’s still bald head. “I'd been in rage all my life. Until you. Until now.”

The baby detaches from Sansa’s breast and gives an adorable sigh of contentment.

“Now, I can’t imagine myself being anything but incandescently happy the rest of my life.” Ivar finishes, leaning down to press a kiss to their daughter’s little nose.

Sansa nudges his arms with her own and Ivar opens them to hold his daughter for the first time as Sansa fixes her night dress.

She is so small in his arms, but immediately, Ivar can feel his world shift on its axis to revolve around the sleeping babe. “Hello, little one. I love you.”

Sansa’s eyes fill with fond tears as she holds her husband around the shoulders and leans her weight against him. “I love you, husband.”

“I love you, wife.” He responds reflexively, still enraptured by the little life in his hands.

Jon, and Ghost enter the room quietly. “How ae you two?” Jon asks.

Sansa beckons them over as she replies. “We’re fine. Come meet the wolf cub.”

Jon goes over to Ivar’s side of the bed. “She’s wonderful.”

Ivar holds his daughter jealously. “She is.”

“Have you thought of a name yet?”

Ivar and Sansa look at each other and turn to Jon together. “We haven’t actually come up with one yet.” Sansa answers sheepishly.

“Definitely not Arya.” She muses. Her sister was hoping to catch the birth but must have been delayed on her latest adventure.

“Or Aslaug.” Ivar responds.

“Or Cat.”

Right on time, a raven caws from an open window. Funny, they’d closed that earlier.

It hops to the bedside table and deposits a small scroll on it. Jon hands it over to Sansa to read. The raven waits from the window sill where it keeps watch on the little family.

There is only one word written on the parchment.

_Gyda_

“Gyda.” Sansa tests on her tongue. It feels right but she doesn’t know what it means.

Ivar’s head pops up as she says it. “Gyda?”

“It feels right doesn’t it.”

Ivar takes some time to think it over. “Yes, I think it does.”

↡

During Gyda’s blessing in the Godswood a week later, Jon surprises them by taking a knee and swearing himself to her protection.

“I’ve sworn so many vows, broke most of them, but I feel this is right.” Jon explains, offering Longclaw up to Sansa. “This is the first vow I’ve ever sworn that hasn’t filled me thoughts of running away from it. I want to swear myself to our family and I can think of no better way to do it than this.”

Sansa takes the sword.

↡

That same night, Ghost scratches at their door, so Ivar stands from the bed to let him in.

Ghost goes right over to Gyda’s little crib and Ivar thinks nothing of it at first. He’s been doing it since she was born and Sansa appreciates the extra security.

It’s not until something gives a little yip that Ivar notices something is different. He shakes Sansa awake gently. “Why? What’s wrong?” She immediately asks.

Ivar points to Ghost who stands by the crib, watching their daughter. “Ghost? Come here, boy.” Sansa calls.

He doesn’t budge so she stands to investigate. The couple walks over and they hear it now, the little mewling and cooing.

Next to Gyda is a little puppy. It takes a while to settle down, but when it finally does, Gyda reaches over a hand to lay on its head and smiles.

They are not sure if it is a direwolf pup or just a wolf pup. Ghost sits beside them smug.

Best gift.

_ 3 YEARS LATER-GODSWOOD _

“Aunt Arya! Aunt Arya!” Gyda calls, running up to her and jumping into her arms.

Arya drops the gifts she brought them and catches her niece. “Hello, little adventurer. What have you been up to since I’ve been away, hm?”

Gendry picks up the stuff Arya drops and carries the bunch further into the Godswood. He shakes his head and smiles fondly at the pair. Arya doesn’t want her own kids yet, but she dotes on her niece and nephew quite a lot.

Arya turns to him knowingly and quirks a brow. “Something on your mind, Gendry?”

“Nothing at all, milady.” Arya growls and runs after him, carrying Gyda along. She laughs in her aunt’s arms. Aunt Arya and Uncle Gendry are so sweet and funny.

Arya tries to jump over a root but miscalculates because of the added weight she carries. They nearly fall to the ground, but Jon plucks the little princess out of Arya’s arms. Arya falls to the ground, but Gyda is fine.

Arya jumps back up easily and brushes off her breeches. “Well thanks for nothing, Jon.”

Gyda laughs and claps in his arms. “Again! Again, Uncle Jon! Again!”

Jon shakes his head and tosses her into the air once, catching her as she shrieks and giggles. “Okay, that’s enough Gyda. Your mommy will feed us to Ghost if we’re not back immediately.”

Sansa sits in her usual spot by the weirwood tree, playing with her husband’s unbound hair as he coos at the bundle in his arms.

Their baby boy was born only a few moons ago, but already his hair springs out in bold brown brushstrokes. Gyda loves having a little brother. He isn’t much fun yet, but she can already imagine all the adventures they can have together when he’s a little bit older.

All little Theon does right now is sleep, poop, and eat; no playing at all.

“Sans!” Arya greets. She jogs up to her sister and leans down to hug her. “Hello, Ivar and Little Theon!” She reaches her hands out to pick up the baby and Ivar reluctantly hands him over.

“Say Arya. Say Arya.” She coaxes. “Ar-ya. Ar-ya.”

Ivar rolls his eyes. “Hand me back my baby and have one of your own for a change. Right Gendry?” He winks.

“Right.” The blacksmith says, sharing a conspiratorial look with his king.

Arya rolls her eyes and continues trying to teach Theon to say her name. “Ar-ya. Ar-ya...”

“How are you on land now?”

Gendry turns to the speaker—Hvitserk—and answers. “Arya’s leant the ship and the crew to Wyn. Calls it a test of leadership and to bring her boat back in one piece, but honestly, it’s more like Arya’s preparing for her new ship to be built.”

Hvitserk gives a small smile and goes back to his prayers.

About a year ago, Bjorn dropped off their brother at White Harbor. He was emaciated and troubled. He hasn’t told anyone what bothers him or what happened, and no one asks.

He was brought to Winterfell to recover from whatever ails him. In this, Wylla has been a great help.

He’s been getting better. The process is slow, arduous, and not always continuous, but he’s getting better.

Ivar leans back into his wife’s skirts and presses her hand to his lips. Sometimes, he thinks about how he got here. How he went off to find glory and fame with his father and found a home instead.

The new family, the acceptance, the peace, the love. Everything he has now.

It wasn’t smooth sailing, but he can only be grateful for everything the storms have blessed him with.

He turns his head to press a kiss to Sansa’s firming middle subtly. They haven’t told the others yet, but Sansa is expecting again.

_To more._

**_THE END_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUCKETLOAD OF SWEET.
> 
> It's been an adventure! Thanks for making it here with me <3


End file.
